I live in a magical kingdom

Everyone in this city is an actor.

They each play an important role.

The baker is a method actor.

He wakes at 3am

and applies flour instead of makeup.

The beekeeper hides

behind his costume

and special effects.

The barista

was hired

with no experience.

I am the town crier.

I live in a tiny house

with only one room

at the bottom of a hill,

at the top of a hill,

next to a castle,

next to a beach.

Every morning I ride

a sheep into the city.

I stand in the street

and try to cry.

Sometimes it is difficult,

so I look around this beautiful city

and think about the places that make me sad.

I look at the chain hung across

the driveway at Wellington College

that I tripped over in the dark

and I think of climbing the fence,

running, and watching 127 Hours

before realising my arm was broken.

I look at the hospital

and think of my friend leaving me there,

in the same emergency room

they drove me to

after I left an empty wine bottle

and an empty pill bottle

in the alley behind the theatre.

I look at the building

where they told me

You are not a functioning member of society.

You are a terrible actor.

The only role you are fit for is town crier.

My tears tear my cheeks to shreds.

Passersby peel pieces from my face

and read the sad, secret messages.

They throw coins into my hat,

but they are only props

made of tin foil.

When it rains

my audience shrinks,

but I still cry

under the giant umbrella.

During an earthquake

I was summoned

to the giant beehive.

The queen bee

directed me to cry

for her and her alone.

I closed my eyes

and did it without thinking

of anything at all.

Outside the wind wound the clocks

and bees tied every raindrop into a bow

(Source: altlitcityscapes)