mischief crescendo

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 cracked like lacquer and a fleet of small doors sailed free, each a neighborhood unmooring itself into possibility Furrows loosened into linen lungs that breathed out markets and swans; clay chimneys grew legs and paced toward the river's first name The Monkey King's grin unraveled into paper cranes that flapped whole houses into the sky, stitching roofs into constellations of sale and祈

He tuned his grin to cymbals; paper cranes beat heartbeats into the night and lanterns learned benediction steps Stalls yawned open as altars: a wheel of petitions, a tarot-tea spin, jugglers whispering prayers between each toss Children in painted faces traded fortunes like pennies, their laughter braided into the liturgy of the midway Priests in sequined sleeves burned confetti incense; the fair

The midway inhaled as if the altars themselves had taught it to be quiet; cymbals paused mid-grin, stalls cupped their mouths Children folded into small saints, their laughter braided into rosary-rhymes and set like pennies on the sill Incense rose to keep count — each curl a ledger of vows, each ember a little yes returned into the palms of beggars Beneath that held breath the Monkey King's bloom

The bloom hiccuped; petals unclasped and the town spilled out like lacquer, streets sliding into sky-rivers Market stalls ran as bright soup; coins bobbed like minnows and receipts, crumpled whales, flapped toward the moon Lantern-light pooled into oil; prayers dissolved there and little boats of history drifted with smoke for oars Children scooped syllables with both hands; the Monkey King kept a

the Monkey King kept a spool of knotted laughter in his palm, he tugged a thread and roofs winked open like surprised smiles, chimneys doing somersaults, streets knitted themselves into hopscotch; vendors sold sundown by the inch and children braided new constellations, the bloom gleefully unspooled history into confetti; every seam giggled loose and the town dissolved into a game.

Laughter coiled to a summit—small rebellions crowning the air, playfulness pitched high until the moon hiccuped, Cranes folded their wings into lullabies; stalls buttoned their voices, coins retreated like shy fish into pockets, The bloom closed like an old map, tucking meandering streets into the soft sutures of palms and memory, The Monkey King loosened his spool; the mischief that rose unrunged