The Secret Scent Of The Cannonball Flower Poem by Reza Raza

Rain does not fall—
it simply blooms on skin,
beneath an invisible chin
where your eyes dissolve
into the tremble of a falling violin leaf
near the throat of an oncoming night.
In the alley's half-sleeping gaze
rests an unfinished arc of dream—
a chandelier flickers into childhood
and sketches speechless shadows
on the dusk-drenched hallway of memory.
Your footsteps
are calligraphy in ambient silence,
echoed only in the tremor
of my misfiring neurons.
Your motion—
a bent arch of color,
an inverted psyche's looking glass.
In the warmth of unread messages,
the cannonball flower stirs from winter-sleep—
a prehistoric cave opens
as if a thousand-year slumber
was cracked by desire's thermal syntax.
Your scent seeps into my fingers
like a half-burnt verse.
This is not the body—
but the unsaid kiss of longing
pressing gently into abstraction.
A rainbird waits,
its beak full of untold water,
while the madman's murmurs drift
into the silent semaphore of white doves.
Dreams descend the staircase
of silent poetry—
while broken time clowns around
in a carnival of beautiful decay.
In a blue-buttoned yellow shirt,
a fragrance chimes—
beaded joy falls into
the cracked corners of this lonely city
where a brown-eyed fox
stares into the sadness blooming
from the petals of unspeakable pain.
At midnight's point of fusion
the body is no longer wet—
it is erased:
its heat, its name,
its meaning.
The flesh stays awake—
while the city
inhales the scent of unspoken touch.
On the edge of the sleepless skyline,
drunken eyes
watch the fog of union
spill—
wordlessly.