Shot Down

I am high over Germany in flight.
White puffs are flack.
I cannot turn back, so am forced to dive,
make evasions to left
and to right.
I hear my scream,
even knowing I’m caught in a dream.

I descend in the valleys of the wind,
but can still see stars;
then drop like a burning flare,
gutter out on a hard icy floor.
I am shot down.

There isn’t so much as a window.
This must be hell!
Dear God, where can you be, if not in dreams.