The Gash In Its Throat Was Shocking,

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

Stilled Legendary Depth: It Was As Deep As England. It Held Pike Too Immense To Stir, So Immense And Old That Past Nightfall I Dared Not Cast.

And The Elephant Sings Deep In The Forest-maze About A Star Of Deathless And Painless Peace But No Astronomer Can Find Where It Is.

The Only Calibration That Counts Is How Much Heart People Invest, How Much They Ignore Their Fears Of Being Hurt Or Caught Out Or Humiliated. And The Only Thing People Regret Is That They Didn't Live Boldly Enough, That They Didn't Invest Enough Heart, Didn't Love Enough. Nothing Else Really Counts At All.

Prose, Narratives, Etcetera, Can Carry Healing. Poetry Does It More Intensely.