The ringing bell pierces the thick summer air,
It tells you that the ice-cream man is here.
On his cycle cart he roams,
Carrying joy and color into so many homes.
The cart lined with a riot of colors.
Yellow, orange, blue, green, pink, white, brown, and red.
The popsicle is a favorite, flavored ice on a stick.
It colors the lips. It colors the soul.
In the beginning it seems to overflow
With a promise of endlessness.
But the bitter truth of the sweet stick,
Is that everything good eventually ends.
The choc-bar is crueler so,
A promise of control that never holds.
The cream melts under the illusionary coat,
Seeping away, slowly, surely, until a husk.
The ice cream bowl is crueler still,
Seeming to overflow, promising to satiate.
But scoop by scoop it dwindles,
Until all that’s left is an empty bowl.
The sandwich ice cream is a beast,
Each bite forcing the cream to spill.
It is a futile battle fought on multiple fronts,
But it ends with cream spilled in every way.
The ice cream cone is a false promise,
Loaded with fun up top and emptiness below.
As time passes, there is less and less,
But you can’t help but live until the end.
Just like the good times it brings,
It fades and melts too soon.
Just like the breath of life,
It too is extinguished leaving an emptiness.
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