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Featured Poem

Coins for a garden of hands.

"People pay to smell like me

A distilled divinity they flaunt around.

They step on calloused hands

On their way to barren fields

 

They cannot buy living water."

 

The poem loosely follows a perfume maker through their day as they make the perfume they sell. The perfume maker has a high, nearly holy opinion of themselves. They view their buyers as beneath themselves, seeing them as chasing something they will never attain. 

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