still spiraling-
the kind of panic that tastes like copper
and settles into the back parts of my gums
          i find myself at odds
          with the stranger's eyes staring back
everyone wears their hunger and their haunt
some just press it better
and i look especially dapper tonight

doctor, i say as i barely whisper,
my eyes have seen the years
they have watched revolutions lose steam
and villains win slow
theyve stared through smoke
and still missed the fire

the world has good men
the world needs bad men
i read that somewhere-
or maybe heard myself say it
over and
    over and
        over again
          the pliable line in the gray decides
          the men that simply sit in poetry
          and the ones that carve it into their bones

in the spaces between increasing beats
echoes of silence mask themselves as wisdom
and the reflection wears a suit fitting all too well
still wishing to change