Mocking the Dead

Mocking the dead, the vampire on the hill, high above the cityscape. Why does his cloak wrap around? It moves with a hissing sound, blackened on the outside, blue on the molten graveside. Sharpening incisors on the crag, but the villagers with their worn rags tight fisted with their goodly lights - those lanterns, infused with salt of garlic, compelled forward in the dead of night. Mockers and murderers, fed by rage, want to dispel the wine and bread. Hell, the strangulation of fire, lava rolling down the hill. Mocking, laughter - the shivering of the old church rafters. The reborn, new creation, settled on roof-blowing praise. Nettled, old Nick, the vampire king unsettled. Mocking the dead, making his own bed, jutting at jugulars, darkening the atmosphere, drawing congregants, unholy. But, someone holy has his heels on the vampire’s head. He’s been banished…dead heads’ rolling. The glorious light of the lamb, consoling.