Z is for Zeta who has yet to die

Z is for Zeta who has yet to die
04/29/2008 - National Poetry Month post #34, last of The Unlucky Twenty-Six

If one thing angered Zeta, it was always being last.
In the phone book and in homeroom, he felt like an outcast.
So he walked around all Marrow Moor in a manner quite downcast,
and he glared at every other person as he was walking past.

But really he just wanted to be normal like the rest,
and when Teacher Molly thought that he was acting quite distressed
she asked him what the matter was and quickly he confessed
that his jolly, gleeful nature was unnaturally repressed.

So she told him he should spend a day in sunny Marrow Park
and he followed her advice, and he went there on a lark
and he had such gleeful fun that he stayed way after dark
until he was discovered by a teenage boy named Clark.

Clark had lived in Marrow Moor for forever and a day,
and he always seemed morose, and he never joined in play
and he kept off by himself, and he mostly stayed away
and he never dressed in anything but black or charcoal gray.

Clark walked right up to Zeta, and he stared, unblinking hard,
and his darkened, long, black trenchcoat made him look quite avant-garde
and his brooding, glum expression made his face look scarred and charred
as he led young Zeta down along the empty boulevard.

Zeta wanted to go home, but he could not resist
as Clark led him through the avenues gray-shrouded in a mist
to a dead-end, brick-walled alley where Clark grabbed him with a fist
and spun him round and bit his neck in an ironic twist.

And in that dreadful instant, Zeta knew what had been done
and from that cold moment forward he could never see the sun
and what Clark had done to him could never, ever be undone
though a smallish part inside of him thought, "Gee, it might be fun."

Through Zeta's veins his blood burned like a raging, wild fire,
and he stumbled through the alleys, and he thought he heard a choir,
so he looked above and saw the pointy part of a church spire
and he realized with a shock that he'd been made a real vampire.

And a hundred years then passed and then another hundred more,
and everyone that Zeta knew had died in Marrow Moor
but undying and unliving Zeta was forevermore,
the eternal curse of being last was such and awful bore.

One of my writing goals for 2008 is to write at least one light verse or poem every week in addition to my haiku wednesday and fiction friday posts. I will try to do this on Mondays.