a foreign virtue

what is fate apart from careful planning
on someone else's watch?
what is a mistake apart from passion
and the sobering process of the next day?
the world spins on its axis;
same thing, calendar moving forward
my body aging and a fire,
a fire stoked for some time.
who will make a life of hushed dreams
and whispered new beginnings?
who will eat at the table of the home
i am building with patience, a virtue
as foreign as the far east:
it is more like where the sun rises and sets
and i can be a pupil of its depths
until patience owns me as water comprises
nearly every cell, every process of my life.

but today my hands have no feeling:
my legs are numb from sitting upon them
and i am curled up like a chambered nautilus
whose owner outgrew and abandoned its home,
able to hope for new life, digesting a past
it can recreate in echos and sounds to hear
as water passes through every chamber.
i heard you calling a million miles away
and thought nothing of the sound
until time and distance covered all matter
as sand stirs and buries that which remains static.
only occasional memory said your name.

if anyone knows silence, i live in its chambers:
if anyone knows questions answered by yourself,
i rationalize the sounds outside my shell away.
if anyone wishes to be numb to desire,
i quiet the screaming with patience,
but i hope too much, so there is only time
between you and i.