The Unruly Comma

Born among words, a brief breath,
it rules the times, a silent sigh.
It halts speech, divides with art,
a little comma, part of the part.
No flight, no motion on the page,
just a curved sign, without sorrow’s rage.

But one day, tired of its usual way,
of that mute duty to mark and obey,
it felt a strange tremor, a deep desire
to wander beyond the serious border.
It detached itself, light, from its line,
a rebellious dot challenging silence divine.

No more forced pauses, no breaks in the flow,
but dances within air, soft illusions aglow.
It fell on a grain of golden dust so fine,
or was it a beat of wings, a tiny choir design?
Now it is a trace of wind, a small whim to roam,
its nonsense is a new horizon, a fresh beginning home.