A Blessing For The Zombies?

This poem should have been written on Halloween. Don’t take it too seriously. Each line in this poem has five syllables.

Once before I thought
to do what I ought.
But now I can see
that I’m a zombie.
My friends are the same–
they all play the game.
Sleepwalking through life,
piper plays his fife.
We jump over cliffs,
and now we’re all stiffs.
Vampire, zombie, ghost
drink a bloody toast
when they find the kill
takes so little skill.
But the vampire chokes–
he cannot take jokes.
Zombie has no way
to smile or be gay.
The ghost cannot claim
to sate lusty flame.
When he touches forms,
ether hand informs
he cannot affect
any hard object.
These wretched creatures
have no fixed features,
but they want to be
in some way more free.
The humans have died,
gone to the far side.
The boogeymen lost
their prey at a cost.
No one left to bite
in the dark of night.
No one left to scare,
or stiffen their hair.
No man will become
a new zombie chum.
The ethereal
are not jovial.
Nobody to claim
for their hellish fame.
What will become of
the beasts without love?
Will they give up games,
leave the burning flames,
leave their lust and hate,
give in to their fate?
Will they join the song
to which all belong?
Or will they still seek
to be a lone freak?
Heaven is waiting
while they are hating.
Will they still delay
their return to day?
Will they seek new zones,
try to cause more groans?
Try to infect men
with evil again?
We can only hope
they will learn to cope
and find a new way
to test or assay
their depravity
and leave gravity;
rise above the pain,
leave every chain,
exit outer space,
join a holy place.
Maybe the good men
that they consumed when
the earth was their home
will rise up like foam
and convert their minds
until each one finds
he is good inside
and has no downside.
Love will hit each heart
like a well-thrown dart.