The Garret Poet dreams of being a bard. He dreams of flying and singing like a nightingale – like any bird for that matter. However, his work holds him tight to his narrow room, where he watches the world he labors to be part of pass by his window.
He loves. He yearns. He gives, and he takes life. He reads, he writes, he cries, and he broods over that which causes him existential strife. He does this in his garret room, offering all for the sake of poetry, to set himself free from his anticipations and doubts. And finally, to rightly pay his respects to the nightingales that sang before him with his fitful poesies.
