I’ve squeezed the lemon – tart fruit that I inherited,
and keynote of the life that I have led.
I’ve tasted deep, albeit in unduly cautious sips;
swallowed, with little complaint, its pith and pips.
But now the juice is nearly all expressed
I must press harder to extract what’s left.                            
I watch a pretty sunset with an unheld hand,
play songs that once resounded in a loving land,
and, indulging the insistent memories, let them dwell
in the darkness, while the stars patrol outside my night-time cell.
I squeeze the acid, press it in the wound again – again!
and savour what little life remains to find within the pain.