Red Sun, Quiet Moon Red sun rises—bloody and bare, Spilling fire on the filth in the air. It claws at rooftops, claws at bone, A burning god on a rusted throne. The streets remember screams and sin, Ash on the lips, fire within. The sky is thick with choking guilt, Built on bones the city built. The heat is rage—no softer name, It sears through sorrow, shame to blame. It watches all with molten eye, And makes the dead too scared to lie. The mirrors melt, the clocks grow teeth, And guilt walks tall in smoke beneath. In alley’s breath and siren’s hum, Regret becomes what we become. But then— A hush. A stillness in the gloom. The world exhales beneath the moon. She rises, pale with silver grace, And lays her hands on every face. A ghostly balm to soothe the scars, She threads her peace between the stars. She cools the flames that rage begun, Undoing sins the day had spun. And in her gaze, the monsters sleep, Their hunger dulled, their secrets deep. But come the dawn, they’ll stir again, For horror lives inside of men. Yet night, for now, is calm and clean— Beneath her watch, we dare to dream. But don’t forget the sun’s return— And all the things we’ve yet to burn