I love you here as i lie in the bed of my sweating ghosts,

but no more shall you breath into my lips you say,

and you are there in your studio with the whispers of Rimbaud and an absinth echo,

you only hate words as they can question you even in paint,

i am my self but a word, a phrase, a passing sentence in your melee of life,

 i am but the overturned and over used phrase,

i am the devil you know.