The Fly on my Ice-cream
The fluttering fly on my ice-cream cone,
Tickled a corner of my frigid funny bone,
Trapped it was on a death row zone,
In a sea of melting pleasures, all alone,
For it dared to venture without instincts; hone,
Straight into the sweet quicksand luring unknown,
It savored for moments as if on a throne,
Before it realized, it could no longer drone,
For it destroyed my ice-cream and made me groan,
But it was ignorance, to which it was prone,
For the fly, should we a little, mourn?
Or silently amuse at its human clone?
Copyright © Pradipta Roy Choudhury