London, a silhouette of old and new buildings,
some, still with winding staircases,
dark dismal cellars and dusty attics.
Sky scrapers, office blocks,
chic cottages and town houses
in, tiny, back street lanes
where I seldom wander
The London Eye revolves in the sky line,
spying on us, ogling the City,
that old river Thames.
See its river boats, old ships,
odd ships and the Houses of Parliament,
offices, where we, the peasants
may only look through glass.
As a child I truly believed
that one day, I'd go into every building,
curiosity my forte, but of course,
there are too many, mostly private,
barred from my prying eyes,
except for some Castles, the Palace,
the Tower and its dungeons.
These are the buildings of London,
with its art galleries, theatres,
churches and museums.
No doubt some are haunted,
their ghosts still walking
within their walls,
at dusk, when shadows fall.
Topic(s) of this poem: London
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