There once was this little lemon whose fate wasn’t all that great, he worried about being left alone, and his future did not bode well. His father before him had died alone, squeezed and pulverized, thus not appreciated much in the afterlife, but a nice flavoring in an Irish stew, which had been quite popular amongst the housewives in the neighborhood.
Spider echoes split intact as famine strokes bleak buzzard’s breast in symphonies of death-cloud resurrection. Although once there had been another dream, as lonesome lemons circled gravy dishes. Back in those days, spiced in moral decay, leveled by handsome maidens in bows, leveled in clear, fresh lemon groves.
Now this little lemon, after his father’s demise, had been shuttled between the moon and the light. He flew between being juice for a fish plate for Jesus, whom he had never followed, and knew that indeed he never would. For what had Jesus ever done for his little family, left alone to die in some char-covered napalm-gorged earth burnt forever, much like his soul?
So, this little lemon, without means, like so many of us, began to write his story. Not for publication or money, for he had no concept of such things, but perhaps for his children, as a warning or maybe a remembrance of whom he’d once been.
Perhaps they would read it some day.
And this little lemon, attended by no-one, sat alone finally with hope run away yet he harkened to music sublime in the twilight and rolled unto sleep-listened dreams gone astray.