Moon at Half Past Noon

It starts as a tremor in the hands,
A scalding heat behind the eyes.
The chest becomes a frantic cage,
That beats and screams with sudden cries.
The provocation is a hook,
Set deep within the anxious gut.
It pulls you toward the dark abyss,
Toward their madness and the rut.

The officer’s shield becomes a dare,
His stare, a challenge sharply thrown.
Each tense and ready muscle strain
To answer with a fire its own.
To meet that force with sudden force,
To be the ghost that they would fear—
The path is brutally direct,
The violent answer waits right here.

But then you see the face beside,
A mirror of the dread you share—
The same tight breath, the eyes held wide,
The burden of the gathering fear.
And in that shared, reflected pause,
A choice begins to firmly bloom.
Their goal is not a victory,
But madness seeking common ruin.

To grasp the sun tight in the fist
Until your empty palm burns red.
To bid the ocean to be still,
To stop the words that must be said.
They demand you yield your vital air,
To prove their law is final law,
While holding out the apocalypse,
A seed they plant for us to thaw.

So you take the scream, the scalding rage,
And do not let the power out.
You turn it inward, to a light,
And anchor what you are about.
You unclench the fist, slow and controlled.
You feel the air upon your palm.
You root your feet into the earth,
And choose to breathe a steady calm.

This is the power they cannot grasp:
To taste the storm, yet know the cost.
To understand the strength they wield
Is every strength that they have lost.
Your composure is the answer found,
A truth that rings beyond all shout:
You cannot chain a tempest down.
You cannot lock the sun itself out.