wild parade

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

It snipped the red seam of the city—streets unstitched into ribbons that chased their owners' shoes A compass sprouted ears and winked; it pointed where regrets hid and led them into tickled alleys Officials found their laws folded into paper boats, floating upriver toward rumor and laughter The Monkey King clapped; the flower somersaulted through cartographers' pockets, turning order into game

After the game, the city inhaled carefully; laughter folded into a single small sigh. The flower furled a petal like a hand over a name, petals whispering old calendars shut. The Monkey King let his applause hang heavy then slip away, placing the bloom on cracked stone in reverence. People moved like soft liturgies past, leaving paper boats of yesterday that the river accepted without sound.

Streetlamps bowed and learned to whisper, laying a velvet hush along cracked cobbles. A petal drifted into a child's palm; the child cupped it like a secret and practiced quieting the ache. The Monkey King let his grin shrink to a moth's wing, keeping his hands empty so sorrow could be held. Paper boats returned at dusk, muffled benedictions afloat, carrying names made small enough to be borne.

The river opened like a chapel and hummed the names, low ribbons of voice steering toward midnight. Streetlamps leaned in, their filaments knitting harmonies, answering in brass breaths and silken hush. A petal in the child's palm thrummed as if a throat had learned a new vowel; the Monkey King beat a slow, reverent time. Paper boats turned into verses, oars sounding like vowels, wakes composing a

wakes composing a chapel of water-song where each ripple pronounces a syllable Streetlamps bowed into altos, their filaments humming in careful intervals The river answered in low basso, a current threading slow consonants through the night Petals opened like throats and learned to hold thirds and fifths, trembling as a choir Paper boats formed ranks, creases aligning into staves; oars became batô

The river hiccupped a scale and spat bright laughter; each ripple struck a cheek like a bell of small misrule Petals clapped like cymbals, spitting sparks that stitched confetti into the sky; streetlamps traded hymns for tickled howls Paper boats began to snicker in rows, oars tapping syncopations that made cobblestones shuffle in their shoes The Monkey King rose, baton a comet-tail grin, and the,

The Monkey King let his baton spill comet-sparks, and the city loosened into an untamed procession of lanterns and laughter Paper boats became full-throated hymns, rowing names toward a forgiving horizon where memory learned to smile and stay light The stubborn flower folded its last petal like a book closed on a lesson, pressing melody into cobbles so small feet might step kinder He bowed with an