soft aftermath

A wild flower flickered in the Monkey King's palm—small as proof, loud as a crown He taught it tricks of wind and riddle-speech, to cart the dusk and tumble kingdoms down Its petals rewrote maps: veins as poems, each fold a compass that makes old borders frown So from that stubborn bloom a new legend grew, stitching history to song and earning its own renown

At dusk the Monkey King cupped the bloom like lantern-light for vanished vows, Each petal exhaled a roster of ruins, names folded into the hush of boughs, It remembers our names, soft as ash, murmured into the river's slow mouth, Farms unlatched their memories; the moon stitched back the silhouettes of towns, It remembers our names, a reed-song passing under bridges and through crowns, The flower—

The flower exhaled a low, rocking hush that braided night into a mother's coil, Petals unspooled lull and ledger both, naming hearths until the smoke forgot its hurry, Lanterns bobbed like slow-heart answers; each name folded into the palm of sleep, The Monkey King's thumb kept the beat, patient as moon-breath, coaxing cities soft and small.

A petal unbuttoned like a pocket into another city, where afternoon walked upside down, Small moons hawked time in paper cups and teaspoons traded the names of lonely shutters, Lanterns grew legs and spilled their light into coat-pockets; bridges hummed with combed glass, The Monkey King grinned and folded constellations like maps, tucking rooftops into the bloom.

He pinched the petal; the city hiccuped into marbles and rolled, roofs rattling down alleyways with delighted clatter, Lanterns sprouted pogo-sticks and hopped their light from stoop to stew-pot, scattering evening like popcorn, Postmen handed out yesterdays as prizes; quarrels unstitched themselves into practical jokes and pigeons filed absurd claims, The bloom winked—laws folded into paper-crane

The bloom hiccupped a violin of rain; its bow stitched rivers through the narrow streets, Lanterns unraveled into sirens of color; the moon's ribs opened, releasing choir after choir of clocks, Pigeons became brass keys that unlatched the horizon; roofs crashed like cymbals into waiting mouths, The Monkey King beat time on a cathedral of glass, conducting the city into a single, furious, ecstatic

ecstatic wave that unstitched the night into paper cranes and slow, forgiving thunder, Glass bell-lips cooled into hush; children gathered marbles that hummed hems of lost towns, The Monkey King cradled the bloom against his ribs; its petals stitched soft maps over raw edges, Lanterns folded their sleeves and mended gutters; the city learned to breathe again, careful as a child.