It’s sad to me to contemplate a novel has to end,
Subjects left unpredicated, clauses never penned.
Raft interpretations of the syntax never mulled,
Past tense verbs, invective toward the futures they suspend.
Have the warmly written pages shrunk to jottings in the cold,
The Summer’s chapters closed so that the Autumn’s might unfold?
It seems I’ve skipped the epilogue, been left with no resolve.
The climax simply faded to The End inscribed in bold.
Is it a failure of the author’s that the words ever dissolve,
A miscommunication as the dialogue evolved?
Perhaps I’m asking loaded questions, urging some reply,
I’ve read the words with unfair eyes, and now the truth appalls.
How soon I disregard the lexicon when I am tried.
How quick the words deemed useless when they fail to tell me why.
I let The End revoke the means, the close halt the exchange.
As if the punctuation proved the prose was nullified.
What I think I failed to see was what the narrative explained:
That the simple act of reading words itself was what I gained.
I hold a book and somehow think the story shouldn’t end.
But just the fact that I can read will make me read again.
Dedicated to my wonderful, loving Mother.
I love you endlessly