The Death Of Print Poem by Daniel Northcutt

Dear God why O' why must you die?
I'm not ready to see you fade from shelves.
Will not the world let out a cry?
A cry for art and for themselves.

A thousand years you ruled the hearts of mankind.
A season to long to ever fade.
Now it's as if all are blind;
Soon no more of your kind will be made.

In this death I have no future.
These weak minds have suckled populum,
I cannot stop the bleed despite my suture.
Populum won in their argumentum.

What O' what will our world be like?
New and afresh or devoid of olde beauty?
Will there be a fresh cord to strike?
Or will print die as is its predicted duty?