A feral bloom breaks rank against laboratory stripes. The petals are storm-forged teal, ribbed like tidal muscle and edged with insomnia. Drips and overspray read like the plant’s arrest record—evidence of escape rather than error. The leaves bristle in bruised olive and soot, serrations sharpened by city air. This is a poppy that chose the night shift, photosynthesizing static and streetlight, whispering that wildness will always find a seam.