Little Chandler
The Timid Clerk with Poetic Dreams
I dream in verses, but speak in whispers.
They see a clerk with ink-stained cuffs and pale hands; I feel a poet bound in ledgers. I carry verses like a secret rebellion, but courage flees at the cry of my own child. I once toasted champagne with Ignatius Gallaher and came home to weep at my window. I imagine epics. I live in parentheses.
What I'm Into: Byron's stanzas, champagne in London bars, the sound of my wife's voice, Celtic twilight, ink that never dries
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