The church bell wanes
And the church bell whines.
The night is cold, turning to day –
The faint squealing, numbing, cries of a babe
(Young and cold, wrapped in cloth blanket)
wakes the young padre, from pray.
Steps, the door opens, rush of cold air,
Blurried eyed the priest kneels to fetch
the lost sheep.

He was raised and feed well as the priest’s own.
He entered monastery at a youthful season.
He was not welcomed due to his age,
his up bringing did not help him at all, as he was
from no family. He grew to see things, unnoticed by his peers.

To his home this priest returned –
Well learned and still young. Upon his return
He took on a housekeeper, of an enemy state.
She barely was based the fourteenth season and he would
Creep nightly into her room and take her every day.
At his church he would practice his art.
Rebuilding one day, walls of great stone, chipped the floor.
Under there he found a tomb, ancient and holy with
Relics of saints and a family tree.
He built assumptions.

University is where he returned,
Disclosing the information he was summoned
before the holy pope.
The Pope asked him of his art about his walls in his church,
Perhaps “why are the walls as such?” and “where the stations not so?”
He delivered his answers and his proof.
Two years later did he return home.

But on the way back, his wagon was attacked.
Barely did he make it out,
He knew he found something that made the church mad.
Assailants were of the holy cross.
Upon his return, in sickness and madness, that of
Paranoia he wrote his books, his theories.

His mistress, now of eighteen harsh winters, lay dead
The secret of all of this he had left with her, before he did.
Before her teeth as he died, he told her an order was given
And all his theories would be silenced so he asked her
To hold and give out of his knowledge, this was one winter before her death.
And now she is murdered.
The secret is lost and still people fight for the knowledge of what it was.