Barry Conway


The Counting Room - Poem by Barry Conway

THE COUNTING ROOM

THERE IS A PLACE IN MYSTERY,
THEY CALL IT THE COUNTING ROOM,
AND IT'S BEEN THE RECKONING,
OF MANY A FALSE HEART,
FOR ALL THE PATHS IN THE WOOD,
FINISH HERE IN THIS PLACE.
IF YOU ASK ME HOW I KNOW?
I KNOW FOR I AM ONE OF THOSE.

FOR IT IS WRITTEN UPON THE WIND,
IN THE ANCIENT BOOK OF TIME,
BY SCRIBES OF SYMMETRY,
WHERE EVERY LINE,
DRAWN UPON YOUR FACE,
EVERY DEED THAT YOU LAID DOWN,
ALL THE WORDS, ARE HERE UNBOUND,
FOREVER ETCHED IN PROPHECY.
YOU MAY PLEAD,
ASK FOR FORGIVENESS,
BUT YOU ARE THEIR ONES.

FOR IN THIS PLACE OF NO MYSTERY,
TWO DOORS ARE CALLED TO ONE,
THROUGH THEM IS THE RECKONING,
OF ALL WE HAVE DONE,
FOR HERE IS WHERE ALL JOURNEYS SEND,
WHERE LIGHT AND DARK COMBINED,
FOR NOW YOU HAVE NO NEED TO ASK
FOR WE ALL ALL ONE.

Topic(s) of this poem: death, fate, journey, life and death, recklessness


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Poem Submitted: Wednesday, June 14, 2017



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