ledger elegy

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

The bloom began to inventory the impossible: receipts for storms, a ledger of vanished streets and small apologies It listed a moon with pockets, a compass that read which childhood you'd be tomorrow, a church spattered in origami birds Rivers were filed under "waiting," mountains cataloged by the taste of their shadows, borders stamped with lullaby signatures The Monkey King watched the list sign

So the bloom began to pare the ledgers into three-breath prayers, each entry a small sky pocketed moon emptied river holds a child's name until morning opens its palm origami church bows

The bloom threaded receipts into a litany, columns folding like hymnals and ink rising into voice Invoices chanted storms paid in thunder; the moon's emptied pocket tinkled with small forgiving coins He watched as debits softened into refrains; names once stamped returned as swellings of mercy Paper prayed itself blank; the origami church nodded and opened a choir of creases that let borders unsew

The river tucks each ledger into its current like a child, ink exhaling into hush and small tides of vowels Petals become tiny skiffs; the bloom rows them slow, counting commas until sleep folds every margin closed The origami church answers in low creases, its choir rocking the horizon until mountains forget to be sharp The Monkey King lifts his map and feels the world lull itself toward morning,

A satchel of pale coins spilled, each disk humming the syllable of a childhood. They rolled across the bloom's palm, a soft ransom that loosened old maps. The Monkey King cupped a handful; memories unbuttoned and slipped into his sleeves. One coin became a boat, another a hymn, a third a key that unlatched a winter's coat. The river took a coin and learned to whistle its name; currents wrote new,驛

The pale coins toll like entries; each clink inks a margin with a small goodbye. The bloom presses receipts to its petals, watching ink suture names into hush and memory. The river intones the long lists as a funeral, folding every comma into a measured benediction. The Monkey King traces these mourning-lines on his map, and cartography itself learns how to grieve.