sunday's epiphany
in response to Manuel Fajar's Sunday's Mystery.

i am no fey archer
to strike your mind with wit
or fatal bolts of want;
i am no nightingale—

what am i, sweet? i am
naught but one voiceless lark
stumbling 'cross endless paths
of fate's identities.

my face, my voice, my touch:
you'd seen once, in night-dreams
beside firelight gold,
flickering solitude,

but love—sightless, voiceless,
scents of mere fantasy,
phantom caresses—sweet,
that is love's soft regard.