Castles have bottomless moats.
The Latin for this is hid in the text of Requiems.
Perhaps the now obsolete Tract
where symbolic Sybil is cryptically mentioned.
Perhaps not. Just the in saecula saeculorum, eternity of eternities’ delicious delerium. Maybe a la Jung, the inconstant reprimand of buzzwords built-in.
The undirected angling invisible shimmer of elevated rotating sequential carousel mirrors, from a world of imagined shards of speechless broken teeth, with jiggly glassy light, high colliding sounds like bags of new marbles hit the ground or make dull bell-tink sound when dropped from bomb bay hand into empty sliced peach can flatbottom thin disc of tin entrapped, reminder of glimpse into gold inlaid silver chalice, the unchanged changeless sacred thing wherein invisible blood be God in brief til we who drink do become great spell ourselves inebriant enough to tell tall tales taller than heaven itself above or depth of ringlake moatswamps to hell, black realm of the everlasting voiceless throatless Fish (do tell).