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Had any poet adequately described the wretched ugliness of a loved one turned inside out with grief?

Kate Morton

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Kate Morton
Age: 48
Born: 1976
Born: July 19
Author
Novelist
Writer
Berri
South Australia
Australia
Described
Grief
Turned
Poet
Inside
Loved
Adequately
Ugliness
Wretched

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It is a cruel, ironical art, photography. The dragging of captured moments into the future moments that should have been allowed to be evaporate into the past should exist only in memories, glimpsed through the fog of events that came after. Photographs force us to see people before their future weighed them down.
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They say everyone needs something to love.
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Reluctance to begin is quick to befriend procrastination. . . .
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A true friend is a light in the dark. Viven
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She felt like a fictional character who'd escaped the book in which her creator had carefully and kindly trapped her, taken a pair of scissors to her outline and leaped, free.
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I sound contemptuous, but I am not. I am interested--intrigued even--by the way time erases real lives, leaving only vague imprints. Blood and spirit fade away so that only names and dates remain.
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Oh, Grey, no one really likes keeping secrets. The only thing that makes a secret fun is knowing that you weren't supposed to tell it.
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Even the most pragmatic person fell victim at times to a longing for something other.
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Curiosity might have killed the cat, but little girls usually fared much better.
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In each man's heart there lies a hole. A dark abyss of need, the filling of which takes precedence over all else.
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Nell was not one for friends and had never hidden her distaste for most other humans, their neurotic compulsion for the acquisition of allies.
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She'd slept terribly the night before. The room, the bed, were both comfortable enough, but she'd been plagued with strange dreams, the sort that lingered upon waking but slithered away from memory as she tried to grasp them. Only the tendrils of discomfort remained.
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Ah, well. Life's too short for moderation, wouldn't you say?
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Mother didn't understand that children aren't frightened by stories that their lives are full of far more frightening things than those contained in fairy tales.
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You make a life out of what you have, not what you're missing.
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It didn't occur to him that she might have chosen to remain this way. That where he saw reserve and loneliness, Cassandra saw self-preservation and the knowledge that it was safer when one had less to lose.
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I'm good with words, but not the spoken kind I've often thought what a marvelous thing it would be if I could only conduct relationships on paper.
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I want to be independent. To meet interesting people. ... I just mean new people with clever things to say. Things I've never heard before. I want to be free. Open to whatever adventure comes along and sweeps me off my feet.
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Children don’t require of their parents a past and they find something faintly unbelievable, almost embarrassing, in parental claims to a prior existence.
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Gerry?' Laurel had to strain to hear thought the noise on the other end of the line. 'Gerry? Where are you?' 'London. A phone booth on Fleet Street.' 'The city still has working phone booths?' 'It would appear so. Unless this is the Tardis, in which case I'm in serious trouble.
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