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