His Day Will Come

It was that intense focus of Unquenched Desire, and not the burning of my Soul in the stench of Hell, that the Fire in my remnant being for Just Vindication and a Proof-full Revenge on that “auctioneering agent of Satan,” who now goes by the silly moniker of M. T. Deceased, which burst me through the dam of the bounds of Death and guided my perilous way into this present and disturbing time. To be scorned in Love was no easy matter, but to be scorned as a writer of worth added doubly to my already painful pain. From out of my great suffering emerged a Hate wedded to Will that would not relinquish hold on the sublime ambition of gifting humanity those Unread Treasures laid up in my bosom and that are my True Being.

“And there lay Visions swift, and sweet, and quaint,
Each in its thin sheath, like a chrysalis,
Some eager to burst forth, some weak and faint
With the soft burthen of intensest bliss.”

Yes, a bliss not given heed by the profane men who slither forward to guard the higher regions of unleveled True Literature. And so here I am: Annabelle Potts; back.

“Yielding to no man's desire,
Glowing with a saffron fire…”

My introduction done, I turn to that which sparks anew the life found here. Free of the suffocating tortures of my fight with Death (D.G.) and of once worn whale-boned corsets, I now breathe a comfort miraculous beyond my previous imagination. Indeed, a Freshness of Spirit, a Release so grand, I take to heart the poet’s words - “Therefore all seasons shall now be sweet to thee” – and so in this present now I find my rage deeply sublimated, transformed to cheerful wonder in this surprising age.

Think not my goal of conquering the Satan Protectors is now diminished. Nay. I but bide my time as time (D.V.) is now my companion not my enemy. As for M. T. Deceased:

“How doth the little crocodile
Improve his shining tail,
And pour the waters of the Nile
On every golden scale!
How cheerfully he seems to grin,
How neatly spreads his claws,
And welcomes little fishes in
With gently smiling jaws!”

His writings are but a runny nose worthy only of being blown into the snot rag of history. His day will come, Deus Volens.

Annabelle Potts

[Poor Annabelle - yes, we have met again - has no concept of modern technology and as a consequence I have graciously allowed her to publish her literary rants/musings here. She will need to get up to speed, however, as I can take only so much hilarity - M.T. (deceased)]



The Sacred White Tulip: As with the Blessed Lilly a statement of dearest Nature to clear the most tragically clouded and despoiled mind.
"But list! a voice is near
Great Pan himself low-whispering through the reeds
'Be thankful, thou; for, if unholy deeds
Ravage the world, tranquillity is here!'"

(I plead, dear reader, for you to ignore the uncivil rantings of M.T. (deceased). May he yet be saved or destroyed.)

A. Potts