The Plight of the Post-Modern Newspaper

Here told is the tale of the printing press
And its beloved child, the newspaper.
What once had been the best source
Of man’s misinformation
Has crumbled in a most indelicate way;
Born and razed in the blink of my eye.
It was a noble profession,
Supplicating the appetite for life of
Men and women, high and low.
City folk gathered on a windy corner
To read the latest and greatest,
While young boys toss each payload
Like an inky grenade, using words
And pictures as deadly shrapnel.

Still, journalism is not dead.
While the newspaper moguls stand
Open-mouthed and breathless, like
A psychic who couldn’t predict
Her own demise,
It was the medium that changed.
Cracked walls and creaking presses
Groaned under the weight of
A billion keyboards typing
(Something had to give).
I wonder now if the history books
In a thousand years will even exist.
We live in an age where one can
Take a seat and watch the decline of
Printed type.

Even as I write this poem,
The impeccable irony of each word
Upon a blank white screen are all
That will outlast me.
Let us hope that in those days,
When the art of handwriting is lost,
There will be those who wander
And sit in the glorious sun and
Synthesize words onto paper.

MSBQ