The Chef Made Human Soup
No one knew no one suspected
The Chef Made Human Soup
The bell above the café rang
no one noticed what she sang
a lullaby with sharpened notes
while smiling wide and taking coats
The chef was whistling, red with steam
his knives hung quiet in their gleam
no menu posted, just a chalk
that changed itself, no need to talk
He stirred the pot with careful grace
a finger bone, a hint of lace
the scent was sweet, like Sunday roast
with whispers clinging to the toast
They came in pairs, they came in threes
he served them broth and old green peas
they licked their lips, they scraped their bowls
he watched, content, with blackened coals
The floor was clean, the lights were low
the lock was firm, no need to go
he topped their drinks, he knew each name
and kept a tally of the game
No blood, no screams, no final fight
just stew and silence every night
they’d smile, they’d chat, they’d leave no trace
just teacup rings and empty space
The chef still cooks, the café thrives
a favourite stop for humble lives
but ask too much, or stay too late
and you might share the evening plate
About the Creator
♿ V+ Marie381Uk
Poetry has lived in me since childhood.
Ink spills the feelings words fear to say.
My poems heal, some haunt, all are pieces of me.
Stay and read please. Like&follow me. If my poetry touches your ♥️ maybe leave a small tip
#Marie381UkWrites
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