It is precisely because there is no God,
At least not one that hovers overhead
And looks and sounds like
A giant, semi-transparent Charlton Heston,
That we must not sin.
Sin wouldn’t matter so much
If there was a nicely muscled
Sky-bound Michelangelo figurine,
Even some indignant angels,
A demarcated heaven and hell,
A legible book of days
A risen scapegoat, any old chance
At transcendent punishment,
Forgiveness, or redemption.
But there isn’t.
And that is precisely why
You had best take responsibility
And live the categorical imperative
And be a lady or a gentleman,
And sin only when you really must
(And then, mostly sins of the flesh)
So that when you die
When your consciousness
Discharges like lightning into the clearing
Your regrets won’t linger like ozone
And foul the irreverent air.