In this image, the air sits as still as it were painted on a canvas
Blue smoke, of joys gone, is still here
Cloaking a soul sold to method and number
Sold, as if the devil's deal had fallen short
Now spooked by the ink of his own pen
The map of a life lived, and the beta versions all over the floor, have all gone awry
All the lines are spidering from here to there, and then back again
For the purpose, they are too thin
And they make no sense
At the end of the day
By and between the devil and me
This agreement is made and entered into
A moth on the back wall
He witnessed and then carried on with his own business
