The First Sermon

The stage is clear, a way is made, 
here it is perpetual day, 
clear skies, personal quarters, 
no horizon, no seeming end, 
no sun to rage sweat on the flesh, 
and there is no moon, 
for which they longed:
those that plunged themselves 
unto Earth.

They went as infants,
inherited a home.
They longed to regain memory, 
and remove themselves
from the absence of humiliation and death, 
of others or themselves, 
and to recall the moon:
that grew full once, 
then diminished as the days passed;
that was what they’d heard
from somewhere, I wouldn’t know, 
and the sermon was passed to us 
when we circled around for lunch.

There was no memory of where I was before, 
of where I lived, what I did, who I worked for, 
who woke me up when the sun rose, or not.
Was I besieged by duty and responsibility, 
and made to maintain myself with courage
on even the most seething, devastating days?
Did I prosper on false hope?
Did I intervene, yield, 
or was it sold?
Who were my peers, family, my lover?

Only a couple residents remain, 
who haven’t renounced this perpetual stay.
They’ve reclused themselves
from all gatherings we held, 
and made themselves deaf 
to all knocks on the doors.
What is it, 
the essence of night that they hold?
Was an essence of Earthly flesh, 
or intellect that remained dormant, 
unextracted across all processes
of admission to this abode?

What are these feelings that we hold, 
in this cold, sterile world?
What caused this distress to erupt, 
and sustain across days, 
in my head, in these plains, 
and when I go out for walks?
What are the remnants that I held on?
How far is the plunge?

Years didn’t fall in line, 
neither did months, 
for there were no seasons, 
or cycles of dusk and dawn.
We didn’t have appetites, 
or malice or remorse,
only poor imitations
of what our prior told us
about life on earth.

I saw a new face today, 
and tomorrow, there will be more.
Vacant houses are starting to fill, 
days are starting to feel short;
I’m failing to grow old.

The plunge,
there is was, 
right next to my abode.