Alibi

An alibi spun like a silk‑threaded lie,
Whispered beneath the neon of a London sky,
Where the rain‑slick pavement mirrors a suspect’s grin,
And the clock on Big Ben ticks the truth within.

A whispered alibi, a thin‑veiled defence,
Holds the night’s secret in its quiet pretence.
Yet every alibi, however well‑spun,
Unravels when the dawn’s first light is done.