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The Sun can be gentle, he can be warm and wash away your worries with the orange tinted light that enters by your window. He can drapple his blessing guiding light over you in a tiring Sunday. But he is no saint for you to trust. He is no angel. He can also be violent, scream loud and make you burn, turning everything into ashes in his wake, his restless rage and prideful flames.
The Moon can be lovely, she can be delicate and watch you during your peaceful and defenseless nights of sleep. She can cover your sins with her gleaming sweet embrace during the quiet hours. But she is no pope to confess to. She is no preacher. She can also be resentful, leave you to rot alone and disappear for long, feeding with your tears, her manipulate whispers and vain waters.