“The Ballad of the Melted Dream”
By Edgar Allan Poe (as imagined)
Once upon a summer dreary, wandering faint and vision-weary,
Long I craved a frozen sweetness—something cold, divine, and creamy.
To the parlor I did stumble, heart aflutter, stomach humble,
Dreaming of the cones and sprinkles gleaming softly, rich and steamy—
“One small scoop,” I whispered, breathy, “only one, and none too dreamy.”
Quoth the vendor: “None for thee.”
Stunned I stood in mournful wonder, hearing now the chilling thunder
Of despair that gnawed within me—oh, the horror! Woe is me!
Empty tubs and hollow freezers, mocking all my fragile pleasers,
Where once the chocolate rivers flowed in splendid frozen ecstasy.
“Gone?” I asked, near tears from pleading—“Gone, your dairy alchemy?”
Quoth the vendor: “None for thee.”
Through the streets I shuffled lowly, like a mourner pacing slowly,
Till upon a shadowed corner came a dreadful sight to see.
There a man with dagger gleaming stood o’er one whose life was streaming—
Blood and cream seemed intermingled in a ghastly symphony.
“Why this madness?” cried I softly—“What strange cause of tyranny?”
Quoth the madman: “None for me!”
“None for any!” loud he shouted, eyes ablaze and faith undoubted,
“None shall lick the frozen sugar—none shall taste of liberty!
We shall rise, ye cream-deprived ones! We shall fight, O famine’s lost sons!
For a cone denied is freedom’s death! Revolt! Revolt with me!”
And I trembled ‘neath the elm trees, though I could but half agree.
Quoth my conscience: “Anarchy.”
Then I stepped from leafy cover, like a fool, or else a lover—
“Friend,” said I, “lay down thy dagger, come and reason once with me.
There’s a brook that winds to heaven, where a new shop stands, ye striven!
They serve what’s called gelato—and a wonder known as water ice, see?
Lemon, cherry, chocolate midnight—all await us, thou and me.”
Quoth the madman: “Can it be?”
“Yes!” said I, “the world still sweetens, though this one has met its seasons;
For each parlor that has perished, two more rise from misery.
Come, exchange thy wrath for flavor, trade thy rage for something braver—
Taste forgiveness, cold and silken, let the past a memory be!”
And his hand released the dagger; from his lips escaped a plea—
“May I have the pistachio?” said he.
Down the lane we walked together, into soft and golden weather,
Past the blood and past the sorrow, past the town’s insanity.
And though death had marked the hour, I still swear I felt a power—
For within each scoop of solace lies a kind of poetry.
And I think I heard a whisper, faint beneath that linden tree—
“Mint chocolate chip,” it sighed to me.
