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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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