It's just a blip.
Waiting in the corners
To make a point and
Then, not able to
Escape the cobwebs
It's been caught.
And sometimes,
It's just an elaborately
Woven novel with layers
Unveiling the plot lines
And finally waltzing
In a public library to
Find itself a fancy
Bookshelf to sit
Haughtily all day long.
It has been a loosely
Edited Tarantino movie
Most of the time-
A heist gone wrong,
Murders, blood and
With the police involved-
Sometimes you're guilty,
Sometimes it's me.
The blame like a
Fire-ball passed on to
One another's peril-
To push each other
To the gallows ultimately.
And as the noose tightens
Around our necks,
Amoursly making out again,
Without any regard for
The hangman or our
Mutual unrest.
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