Falling

A voice through static, speech erratic her echo "Iced, Mayday"
A plane carrying nine souls without controls, on a rainy gray day
Twenty thousand feet a minute, over the limit, a meteor from the sky 
In a wounded bird nary a word, then the pilot's "We're gong to die"
A held breath, imminent death, plunging toward the ground
In a ball of flame disolved each name, only small pieces found
From an expert's advice they thought it was ice, formed on tail and wing
Death diagnosed in the voice of a ghost, falling from where angels sing