Smoke Rings in Your Mind

Like a Circe in a spiral, making deals that seem surreal.

Not an ending or beginning to her ever-spinning spiel.

Like a snowjob in a desert or a scandal that balloons.

Like a manic organ grinder with a troupe of trained baboons.

Like a clock whose hands are sweeping past misdeeds under a rug

From where they come a’tumbling when you give the rug a tug.

Like an eagle flying blind

through the smoke rings in your mind.

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