The uncaused moment that is this comma, is the bough that for, but, a moment sways, as only its motion relates the day, beyond the bars that this sonnet infers,
as the mellifluous light of morning, inters his eyes within this space of time, without that joy, undeterred by this rhyme, where he smiles in a way, just seeming,
to hint at a skull, which only relates to his past, this poem finds so distractive, unlike that bough which, for a moment, stays,
within its rhythm, or its beginning to end. And it ends. And then there is life. And the mellifluous light of evening.
