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Henrie Diosa May 18
your finite minds will calculate
the music of the spheres,
and try to map the infinite
to guide your pioneers

but though those circles heave and sway
and through the aether surge;
i tie my fulgent secret way
not to this demiurge.

that blinding, bumbling dynamo
is but another star,
and countless others shine just so,
indifferent and far.

why let that mere proximity
endear my core to this,
when graver is the gravity
twixt me and the abyss?

no law of physics governs me,
they know not how I move,
i flitter frictionless and free
though maths may not approve

predict my orbit, if you can!
jar lightning for your gears!
i trap the spite of centuries
i burn your deity's tears

remember, child of adam, and resign:
i am the matter you will never find
(it's from the pov of a particle of dark matter, but like what if it wanted to ******* scientists on purpose)
Henrie Diosa Feb 17
Why couldn’t you just shine, and never flicker?
Why couldn’t you forget me, like the rest?
Just let me be your ****-up of a sister,
The failure that you pushed out of the nest.

You could have lived the life that you predicted:
A house, a yard, a minivan, a kid!
And I could hike the continent, contented
With what I’ve done, not caring what you did.

Whose fault was it? Which ******* here was driving
When all your glittering plans went up in ash?
How dare you break beyond hope of surviving;
How dare you die, Jane Perkins, in that crash!

How dare your number call me with no warning
That some guy’s voice would sob with tragic news?
How dare you write no checklist for this mourning,
This endless task that I can never snooze?

How do I shape a life outside your shadow?
How do I cut a path you never tread?
Why can’t I run away to Colorado,
What ties me down to Hatchetfield instead?

Of course I’m left to finish what you started;
This cruelty is all so very you —
You, accomplished, finished, done, departed —!
You’ve left me all the things I cannot do.
written in the character of Emma Perkins from The Guy Who Didn't Like Musicals
Henrie Diosa Nov 2021
i am a kind of hermit-crab,
and there i found a shell,
and would have stayed, but summer passed —
the walls i had outgrown.
i kept my trinkets in my cave,
and to myself alone
that attic flat in bremen was
my home away from hell.

half-sleepy on the straßenbahn,
transport me anywhere —
the frei in freie hansestadt,
could taste it in the air!
i kept a book for sketching in,
and never felt so free —
that attic flat in bremen where
one summer i was me.
This is a poem I wrote for class. We were only supposed to make one stanza, and I only submitted the first (edited into the required quatrain, though I think it breathes better set this way) but I wanted to have the whole thing up somewhere.
Henrie Diosa Nov 2021
take the torch that splits the dark,
pocket monsters are the mark,
shine the light upon the messes,
seek the one who fluoresces
Written for Racheltown
Henrie Diosa Nov 2021
women fear me, fish fear me
men avert their eyes
every living creature falls
into a hush, and dies.  
when i walk, i walk in silence
on this barren ground
i will never fall, and thus
will never make a sound
Written for Racheltown. If you know, you know.
Henrie Diosa Nov 2021
Tell me, truly, are you singing?
Say, are you the one who sings?
Or was that the reeds a-ringing
Rung by Zephyr’s mayfly wings?

Once upon a quiet evening by a still and silent water
was Ioreth, who was singing, as they gazed upon the sky
who was neither flesh nor fairy, who was neither son nor daughter,
who, while all of use were merry, went away without goodbye.
Our Ioreth sat there singing to the cool and quiet sky.

List you well, for they have started; can you hear Ioreth singing?
They were nearly still departed, and their voice is still nearby.
Where the dew clings to the rushes, and the reeds where dew is clinging
look o’er still and silent gushes, there they’re singing to the sky.
They were flighty; we were foolish; we remain; their voice will fly.

Tell me, truly, were you singing?
Say that lovely voice was yours!
Or was that the breeze a-bringing
Melodies from other shores?

When Ioreth, in their weeping, noticed ripples on the river,
then the one, no longer sleeping, rose to greet them and to try
to ascertain if it truly was Ioreth, music-giver,
who was quietly and cooly singing to the silent sky.
Such a one, below them peeping, spoke and sang for a reply.

So Ioreth, slightly pensive, leaning like the rushes weary,
sang with language quite defensive that they could be heard to sing,
but it was a night of singing, and the rest of us were merry,
or it could have been the wind that could be heard, for it was spring;
Sang with language quite extensive that it could be anything.

Tell me, truly, were you singing?
Will you sing for me right here?
I heard winds your voice a-stringing
And I want to have it near!

So the one list to their singing, with damp arms upon the shore,
and Ioreth, forward leaning, sang to her and to the sky.
Not a star was watching o’er them; they had all gone on before
when she reached out to embrace them and to wipe their cold face dry.
And Ioreth, pity gleaning, let the one list to them cry.

Tell me, truly, were you singing?
I thought Heaven sang to me!
I will swim back home a-bringing
Your enchanting melody!

When the one embraced them hither, (they could not be saved by praying)
then Ioreth’s voice did wither, though they did a screaming try.
And the one took them down with her, where the rushes all are swaying;
We were far away and merry; we did not list to their cry
And Ioreth’s voice, reminder that we never truly die,

Ioreth’s voice will sing there

‘Til the rest of us reply.
Note: "Ioreth" is pronounced /ˌaˈjɔːɾɜθ/. I wrote this in 2016 as part of my debut (literally; I published it on my 18th birthday) collection of writing, Well-Arranged Inkstains. The version in the book uses the neopronoun set ne/nem/nir/nirs/nemself, the pronouns I was using at the time; this version, no less non-binary, uses singular they, my current set of pronouns. No particular agenda there. I just wanted a poem to exist that used my pronouns; the rest is dreamy nonsense. A cautionary tale of what happens when outcasts are left unsupervised by moving bodies of water and tall grass.
Henrie Diosa Nov 2021
i know you like a house that looks like no-one is at home;
i know you love me more when i'm not reading you a poem
but i must empty cabinets and swing and shut the doors
i have to **** the bedroom lights and creak along the floors

so thank you for the space to *****, the room to pest and polter
forgive the spiders in your hair, the tapping on your shoulder
my friends are dead. their friends are dead. so i might die as well
we have no hope of heaven so i’ll harrow our own hell

i'm peeking out the picture frames; i'm haunting our own halls;
i am the yellow ivy in the papers on the walls.
what else, what else, what else, what else have i to do in here?
please. i just need to make it through another business year
because i need to make it through another endless year
so just lock me in the attic if you do not want me here
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