The Missed Breath of the Comma

It is a curved point, a lazy arch,
a brief breath that holds the entire sense.
A thin bridge between an abyss and shelter,
it measures the sigh, carves out the true.
Without it, the phrase runs crooked to the next line,
a river without bends, without the right sound.

But when it slips, a slight false step,
from right to left, or the scene disappears,
behold, the world vibrates with another intent.
An accusation becomes a sweet compliment,
an order changes into vain waiting,
yesterday’s promise turns to bitter offense.
Its silence is a storm, not gentle quietude.

Little muse of rhythm and logic,
discreet empress of every page,
its absence is a cry, its presence is a gift.
It is the heartbeat that thought bestows,
a butterfly placed on a border,
the invisible map of every saying.