The Wing That Holds the Spring

In the sky, where the roar is not of birds, but of blades and steel,
He flies as a shadow between storms and the scream of hopes.
His heart does not beat – it boils within the metal,
Holding as a spine the world that has plunged into battle.

The sky becomes both his cloak and his armor,
While you clench the moment of the past in your palms.
Alone with the wind, the darkness, and her –
Death, flickering in every frame of the radar.

In the yoke, he holds not just a machine –
But your peace, your coffee, and the sun in the morning window.
He leaves white contrails in the sky,
So that dawns do not vanish in your sleep.

Though you may not see how he traces the fiery space,
You know: every night, the world is held upon his shoulders.
Warrior and pilot. A blessed guardian.
Steel that carries spring through the fierce night.