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

Adults weren’t supposed to understand their children and you were doing something wrong if they did.

To abandon a child, she had once said to someone, when she thought Cassandra couldn't hear, was an act so cold, so careless, it refused forgiveness.

Percy climbed the first step, then the next, remembering the thousands of times she'd run through the door, in a hurry to get to the future, to whatever was coming next, to this moment.

Reluctance to begin is quick to befriend procrastination. . . .

I write what I'd like to read and just hope that, along the way, others might like to read them, too.

I am not a storyteller . . . not like the others. I only have one tale to tell.