Too much CSI

Wind whisping hair across her face

obscuring her view of the purple trace

She followed the trail searching.

The air was pungent, coating her

tongue. Filling her lungs

with the hated scent.

The purple extended trace, style

in vision: bolder, stronger; bile

in her mouth. A cry whispering

against her ear. The smoke

pricked at her, obscuring

with clammy skin, all hope.

Scent sabotaged her, that roasted

reek. Scent of flesh. All forced

control lost. Pebbles dug into her fists,

the wind held her hair back. Mists

purple ahead, drawing, pulling

dragging, towing, needing…

Stumbling on, hope hobbled in a cage

afraid to know. Silence met by rage

Burning, twisting, popping, destroying.

Avoiding the heat on her skin,

avoiding the prickling pin,

pins in her mind, poking, daring

Think it. Think it. You know already.

“No! No. no,” rasping rejection against

her own mind, echoes over barren land tensed.

She falls, and gazes up to eerie light

pink, orange, yellow, blue, purple night…

no sound, no rage, no pity, stark

outlines of nightmares, the stench of despair

filling her soul.