Magical Working—A Sestina

A blast of smoke,
trembling, fading into fog.
Bright and billowing in shades of purple,
the colour of magical workings swirls
through the sky,
competing for space with the clouds.

He detests those clouds,
thinks hate at them as they drift into the sky
The sensual swirls
do nothing for him, except turn his face purple.
His mind is a fog
as he inhales the smoke.

A nameless bandit, his headband purple
with blood, clouds
forming on his eyes as the steam swirls,
He hates the bandit, hates the smoke,
detests the fog
that spirals into the sky.

It glares down at him, the sky,
purple
in its rage against the unnatural murderer of murderers. The fog
of magic clouds
him and his victim in smoke
as the lavender tendrils swirl.

Twirling the knife, blood swirls
from his hand onto the ground as he thinks hate at the sky.
A diagram of power drawn on the floor under the low-lying smoke
the lines of it purple
with red blood and blue chalk. More smoke clouds
the room, filling it with fog.

The fog
begins to dissipate, swirls
around him as the bandit dies, gasping from the clouds
of magical power that drift into the sky.
The colour from the bandit's headband fades from purple
to pale blue as the mage disappears in smoke.