Where the planes fly high

The planes have gotten complacent. They dive
Low and close without fear for high-rise. Blinking 
Eyes peering at us, prisoners under the patrolling
Dragons overhead. We freeze and stare back, and
Like an important announcement, we shut up
When they fly by and wait for the roar to be swallowed
Into the far clouds.

Even the birds now walk with false confidence
Since under the skies of the aerial tyrant they are
A higher being. They cry
Incessantly and stare at us with mean
Red eyes. On wet nights, the dark canvas sports a
Toothpaste smudge on the black marble sink. There, 
Beside that pinhole, the crows perch upon a spotlight, 
Surveying us for the dying. Their gaze uncomfortable 
And all knowing like an omen.