It’s hidden beneath a house, below the ground, the earth so old.
A mystery within misery that no one can understand.
A secret destroying, solid existence of what we were told.
Rooted and entrenched, locked away twisting and growing under kingdom land.
Not unclear to all that know, but painfully shadowy to those the bell tolls.
Murky, gloomy, seedy and dark beyond all fear.
Being never arrives, unlike the Dead Sea scrolls.
Timing is everything, for no reason it draws near.
Writing Bell 