A cup half-full

Twenty-six alphabets,
Just twenty-six,
Strewn together contain
An ocean of meanings and nuances,
Beauty, love, lust, anger,
Envy, passion and prayer,
All stand like clothes
In the cupboard of the mind,
On hangers just twenty-six.

Probability predicts
That given enough time,
And patience,
Randomly uniting
In all infinite ways possible,
These letters will combine
Into everything conceivable,
Everything that has been,
Everything that shall ever be.

I have time till eternity,
And patience that stretches,
From one end of the horizon
To the other,
And so I wait, counting heartbeats,
For these letters to be resolved
Magically into your name,
Probability is now my creed
The possibilities my devotion.

I wait and wait,
Like the earth waits for the sky,
Or the empty nest for wandering birds,
For love is not like scarlet fever,
To cure itself with a change of season,
But a disease, chronic and cruel,
That would neither kill nor go away.