Prose, narratives, etcetera, can carry healing. Poetry does it more intensely.

Do as you like with me. I'm your parcel. I have only our address on me. Open me, or readdress me.

In the pit of red You hid from the bone-clinic whiteness But the jewel you lost was blue.

So we found the end of our journey. So we stood, alive in the river of light, Among the creatures of light, creatures of light.

He was his own leftover, the spat-out scrag. He was what his brain could make nothing of.

You solve it as you get older, when you reach the point where you've tasted so much that you can somehow sacrifice certain things more easily, and you have a more tolerant view of things like possessiveness (your own) and a broader acceptance of the pains and the losses.

where are the gods the gods hate us the gods have run away the gods have hidden in holes the gods are dead of the plague they rot and stink too there never were any gods there’s only death