A/N

So what happens when you work the graveyard shift in a public library and have plenty of time to doodle as a result? Well, this, among other things.

Embers

Klaus Baudelaire, he loved to read,

Since he was very small.

But now these days, these printed words,

Give him no joy at all.

…

He works within a library,

Under a falsified name.

Does not use name of "Baudelaire,"

Word of ill-begotten fame.

…

Fame spread from falsehoods printed,

Across world that spurns the truth.

With new names, the three have scattered,

Live under different roofs.

…

So it's late within the library,

Looks at books with weary eyes.

In the 900s, history,

Wonders how much of this is lies.

…

How can he trust the words of books,

When words spoken were false?

When just to live he lives a lie,

By fate from joy repulsed?

…

How long it is till these books burn,

And new truths are put to page?

How long must he keep his silence,

While suppressing burning rage?

…

These days, he drifts to fiction.

To stories all untrue.

But their plots rarely unfortunate,

So he tends to read them through.

…

Night has come, he's closing up,

Another day, long lost to time.

He'll head home with borrowed books,

Dwell in isolation so sublime.

…

Not in joy, for that sensation,

Has been long gone for years.

The Baudelaires gone separate ways,

Long depleted are their tears.

…

So in his abode he'll read alone,

Try to contain his ire.

Dream the dreams of walking dead,

Dream of the heat of fire.