Life a counting machine;
count your blessings, years, months, days,
hours and moments, one over the other
like beads of a rosary
falling on top of the other
to create a tick sound
that washes your sins away.
How many times you run through
your worry beads, matters most
and not what you mumble
in hurriedly running through.
Your prayers do reap a bull
on one special night,
they count ten
thousand years of supplication.
A good accountant knows his
balance sheet of blessings
but eternally remains blind to the Reader,
one less and you are doomed,
one hanging prayer could count you in.
Counting just on your pricey marble rosary can be slippery.
