The Phantasmal Library {poetry and short stories}

[Ganyu]

Chicken Soup
I always wondered what of chicken soup
made it so appealing to people?
How could chicken broth -
conjured out of water and grain,
manufactured in sachets
and frozen in time by silicon -
make someone feel full?

Could it be that it was made with
hands tender and warm, that
carefully poised the kettle's snout
and pour their hearts into a little cup
of someone's soul, waiting to be warmed?

But what good is a sip
when it only turns ice into snow;
when there's abundant heat out there,
to be hunted, caught, and made into soup.
Idle blades weigh themselves
with rust from lack of want,
sleeping deep within their sheath,
like a coffin in soil's underneath.

Pages can feed you tales that enrich your soul,
but like the ink on old parchment, memories fade.
Breathe life into those words and feel your lungs move,
you will see a life writ out of a novel,
the greatest ever.
By yours truly,
the bold dreamer.

Author's Note: As the name suggests, I wrote this poem as a commentary on the book series "Chicken Soup for the Soul". I'm not really a fan of self-help books but while I don't condone reading it, I think people shouldn't be over-reliant on such books. It's good that words can heal but reading is as good as not acting which is just not 100% helpful. Maybe 50? But that's it really.