The Vertigo of the Useless Comma

In an anarchy of flowing words,
without breath, without a quiet brake,
the comma stands, mute among the segments,
a black curl, a small veto.
No one notices its head bowed low,
the faint weight of a black dot,
lost between a pronoun and a predicate,
a soul inked to its destiny.

It dreams of the pause that is not granted,
the gentle breath that stretches out meaning,
separation, a complex shadow,
that unites and breaks, that thought intends.
It would like to be a bridge, or a barrier,
to clarify sense, to mark a breath,
no longer a vain and captive curve,
a useless whim, a silent sigh.

And in the roar of flowing phrases,
without a border, without a clear limit,
the comma dissolves, among the laments
of a world that never asks for a pact.
But in those who perceive its call,
subtle and arcane, a faint whisper:
that even the smallest sign, which we love,
can give order to chaos, a credible sense.