Colosseum of thought,
Hemmed in by walls of piled humanity,
They cheer on
Without knowing why.
Tumultuous crescendo assails ears that seek only quiet,
A small place to think,
Alas this is no haven,
No sanctity from the outside world.
No, no place for unsheathed pens that always did prefer the still of night;
Written deaths are less of a draw in the darkness.
It could have worked.
A Gladiator of words would have been so novel.