soft confession

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.

The bloom went quieter than quiet, like a candle learning to keep a secret. Its petals surrendered one small fact—homes had grown where promises were sown, not stones. The Monkey King's thumb slackened; an apology settled into his palm like a patient pulse. Night leaned in; roofs inhaled the soft syllable and held it like newly sewn cloth. The river catalogued that syllable, smoothing it into a sh

smoothing it into a shiver of sound that coaxed the reeds into speech, each syllable swung like a small bell and windows unlatched to answer, roofs folded their lids away; alleys rose, a long throat exhaling names, the bloom split its breath into many little choirs and the town learned how to wake

Hinges hummed awake; light slipped under thresholds like a curious hand, A kettle answered from the third flat, steam threading the bloom's soft glossary of names, Children pressed palms to frames and found maps there—shoeprints spelling directions home, The Monkey King kept a thumbbeat on every latch; morning came measured, parcel by parcel.

He eased his thumb, listening for balances in the thin spaces between doorframes, The bloom answered with quiet tallies: a hinge oiled, a window forgiven, a ledger folded into tea, Neighbors stepped into the count—one bowl, one mend, a child's lost shoe returned to grass, Dawn did not roar; it unfolded like a long apology, and the town learned to settle debts with small hands.

A thin truth slipped from him like lint, no trumpet, only the small honesty of being human, The bloom curled around that fragile thing and tucked it safe as seed beneath its ribs, Homes exhaled together; neighbors ironed the last creases from their days with steady, unbrisk fingers, He rose lighter, palms emptying into silence as the flower folded closed and the river carried the promise onward.