A few days ago I wrote that I had, masochistically, started another book by Sadie Jones. My 3 previous attempts at reading her novels resulted in those books going unfinished, indeed, being relegated to the 'ho-hum, boring' bin rather quickly. My 4th attempt, "The Snakes" fared a bit better, initially. Out of some 448 pages I read about 350 of them and then...I could not spend one minute more with these people, in that situation. No, I had had enough of them, I no longer cared. I did read the last chapter to see if the story went anywhere and it went to a dark place - a most unsatisfying ending. Perhaps if I had read the entire book, and not just 2/3 thirds of it, I may have seen the point to the ending, it might have all been building up to this particular conclusion - but I could not persevere, I just did not care.
In an early chapter, one character said of another "He had no reward, he was in deficit to his life, paying out and getting nothing back". (The Snakes by Sadie Jones).
And that reminded me of a poem I had written some 40 years ago. I'll share that with you, if you don't mind.
(I've never titled any of my poems, save for one, and that only because it was presented formally to the public. I guess the public at large requires titles.)
What price we pay
for dreams and expectations.
Life time payments
for undelivered goods.
We pay by pain for
for pennyweights of happiness
and the account is never closed
for lack of funds.
A lifetime’s statement written
in blood red debits,
Credits due but not received,
no interest earned.
We buy our lives with
cold hard pain and
And there is no money back,
no satisfaction guaranteed.
No refunds - no returns - no delivery
But always payment due.
© Grace Torre St. Clair
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