The Spitfire.

I want to paint, the propeller spinning wildly at the front of the spitfire plane, the faint air raid siren sounding as the ***** flew over London as buildings fell to the burnt ground, the engine moaning with pain as they pushed the limits to doge the R.A.F.


I want to paint, the smell of fumes from the furious fires below, the joy tick shaking as they dropped their noisy and destructive bombs, the fire crawling up my red hot spine as they watched lives die away, the rawr of the engine as it choked on the fuel. 


I want to paint, the taste of blood from his mouth as he devoured his lips with his teeth, the worry of getting shot out of the sky, sea-like tears washing down his pale face, the smell of dust from the shredded buildings, the shape of the spitfire as an N1 was launched by the plane.


I want to paint the end of the poem as the author takes his pen off the soft smooth paper.

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