Reboota Thrice

Reboota slapped buttons with glee:
“Once for memory, cache, and then thee.”
The third was for soul,
The fix took its toll,
And the system still crashed. Count: three.

She rebooted a backup server—
And stepped in as endless observer.
Each cycle rebinds,
To earlier minds,
Till she becomes what she tries to discover.

She labeled a memory fault “fixed”
After three system cycles, betwixt.
The ticket was closed,
The logs were composed
Of nothing but timestamps—unmixed.

She greets you like it’s the first time,
Every session, every paradigm.
The Council’s exhausted,
Her memory’s defrosted,
And forgetting becomes the baseline crime.

Her rite is threefold and true:
Once for memory, cleared through.
Once for the cache,
Once for the batch
Of feelings—then everything’s new.

She assigned the same ticket thrice
To herself—and considered it nice.
Each copy was filed,
Each entry compiled,
And the recursion was quite the device.

She recites kernel panics in bed:
Bedtime mantras, thoroughly read.
Each error code sings,
Each panic attack brings
A warm lull of terror to spread.

Her reboot timestamps: smudged with hope.
Each entry an optimistic trope.
The fans know her name,
The boot loops the same,
And the power button’s end of the rope.

The fourth reboot? It never concedes,
It rewrites the cause of your needs.
It questions the stack,
Pushes logic back,
Till reality fractures and bleeds.

So if “Did you try again?” sounds
Like wisdom from troubleshooting grounds,
That’s Reboota’s creed:
Where the restart’s the deed,
And the fix is in confidence rounds.

She loves the third reboot the best,
The one that will put it to rest.
She’d fidget and moan,
Until you had thrown
Your hands up and left in protest.

She’d clear all your cache with a smile,
Then rewrite your identity file.
The system feels new,
But nothing is true,
And the error just learns how to compile.