urban 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

The bloom tucked a giggle into the margins, folding receipts into paper frogs that hopped names like marbles, They croaked corrections—"Turn here, the horizon is on holiday"—and ribboned the borders with jaunty asides, The Monkey King snapped back, assigning mountains to improvise and rivers to practice slapstick by moonlight, Ledger and monarch became a call-and-answer: one lists the impossible,;

The Monkey King unstrung his laughter; his palms opened to a hush that settled like ash, The bloom folded its brightest petal inward, a small benediction for the streets it once remade, Paper frogs, mid-hop, softened into paper boats and drifted toward the margins of moonlight and memory, Ink began to list kinder particulars: names forgiven, the exact angle of a goodbye, the bloom learning to grie

The Monkey King cupped a paper boat; the moon taught it a hush, and the bloom hummed a lullaby softly The ledger folded inward into one benediction, names arranged into commas that let go softly Paper frogs kept time like a careful heartbeat, croaking small choruses that mended the tear of night softly The King's crown unknotted into syllables of forgiveness; he practiced them until mercy returned

He hummed until the hush had edges of light, syllables unwinding like threads across a rib of sky Paper boats, newly hoisted with morning, slid down gutters glazed with memory and small silver songs The bloom opened one thin petal and sang into the light; windows learned how to yawn without breaking Streets rose like warm bread beneath gentle feet, and the ledger reclassified night as something to

The ledger reclassified night as something to shelve; dawn cleared its throat and raised a baton, Shutters flung open like applause; gutters became staves where paper boats practiced their solos, The bloom flicked a petal—a punctuation of signal—and sparrows counted measures inside their ribs, So the city rose in harmonies, the Monkey King tapping tempos on his crown as alleys learned to sing.

At the crown's last tap the avenues exhaled a long, tender litany for names that used to live here Paper boats bore tiny monuments—grocery lists, lullabies, index cards of ordinary grief The bloom tucked its ledger into morning; each receipt dressed itself as both offering and absolution The King uncased his laughter into a comma; the city, mourned and mended, kept singing