Soul, Medium Rare

Whenever I smell
hot oozy tar,
I almost rejoice
‘cause I also feel charred.

A snowflake stays pure
only until it lands,
every fall bruises,
snow knows, and I do too.

I filled wounds with gold,
got them shiny as stars,
so that all the glitter
would blind prying eyes.

Isn’t cotton candy sweet,
but with a marred aftertaste?
Marshmallows swear that
charred is their best shape.

Adieu à Dieu,
I still see you from afar.