Self-abuse

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 resided 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.

The central, shifting simile came to me one evening. (I’d started reading Yeats.) Then fragments of lines came, and insisted on the rhyme. And, with that simple rhyme, I only had to wait two more nights for the words to assemble themselves. It’s not often that easy!
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