Cinder Forgememo

Cinder etches each memo in ash—
A flaming quill’s beautiful slash.
Each dictate glows bright,
Then crumbles at night,
And the archive burns out with a flash.

She misfiled a dictate as “poetry”—
Ephemeral, dreamy, no lottery
Of structured compliance.
Her fiery reliance
On feeling? A charred potpourri.

She ignited an archive shelf whole
During transcription—her ritualistic goal.
“Ceremonially necessary!”
She claimed, somewhat airy,
While the fire consumed every scroll.

Her burning quill writes with intent—
Each word glows before it is spent.
The ash tablets remain
As proof of the pain
Of documentation heaven-sent.

She sees beauty in transience’s flame—
Each forgotten word leaving its name
As a trace in the dust,
A carbon-rich crust
Of memos no one can reclaim.

Her Ember Archives smolder and glow—
A vault of ash, row after row.
Each Council dictate
Meets an ashen fate,
And the documentation runs slow.

She suppresses rogue embers with care—
When the archive combusts? She is there.
But the line between
Creation’s sheen
And destruction? A pyric affair.

She chants lost dictations each night
Under smoldering lanternlit light.
The words burn and fade,
Each ceremonial grade
Of documentation burning bright.

“Every word burns eternal,” she cries,
Though the ash contradicts all her ties
To permanence. Still,
Her flaming quill
Ensures every memo never quite dies.

So if memos turn quickly to dust
And the archive smells strongly of must
And charcoal and flame,
That’s Cinder’s great claim:
Where the transient is held in great trust.