Sunday, quiet
The city sleeps
Dulled expectations
as the feast awaits
A few day’s respite
from the grinding whine
High pitched beacon
Moths to the flame
The groaning anguish
across night skies
is not the hum of pavement
But the earth’s growing
protestation
Her lament for bygone
when her children padded
in soft feet on her skin
To nestle at her bosom
Now too clever
They ever mean
to reshape her