The Barbican

Verbose, the ground’s a circus now
where we dance and we slay all the
dragons. Engrossed, and alive with
doubt and the lady she sings for the
hills. The elementary lights display
a sacrilegious word for the day
and in the fledgling moon we sway
to a beat that will be gone in the
morning. Climbers swept and tugged
through gaps of cracking marble
amidst the taps that can barely cope
with the demand of each throbbing
watt.