The Immortal Mosquito
When dust first rose to blind the fallow mass,
and Judas followed Jesus, I was there.
They crowned his head with thorns on bloodied hair
and dragged him through the streets beneath a cross.
I tried the blood that bloomed upon his face
and drank a glob of Jesus in despair,
but nothing in its essence could compare
to Judas blood so strong with thick distaste.
Since that time I feast Iscariot lines
their blood bulbs grapes that burst on stony ground
too full of juice to hang upon the vines.
It grows in yards with wire and barbs around
yet through the years they’ve fed me very well.
I dine on wine matured by infidels
Neil Fawcett © 2016