E-books and Nooks

I mourn the wastefulness of publication,

Where pages upon pages were poured over in admiration.

The parchment, perfect. The feel, crisp and sharp.

Now the words blend together and I fear by the end I'll be blind.

The cold calculated, yet so lazily overlook'd prose feels cold.

The figmentated page flips over and commands the same of our mind.

Rolling, rolling down we go! Where we stop, nobody knows.

Logging is the root of all literary evil.

The corpses we poisoned and spat on,

sawed through and sat on.

Now life is not precious, and so words become sheared.

Just the same as our books we no longer lend ears.

I miss the papercuts and the weight of my tomes in hand.

Smashing across the head of another stupid man.

I mourn the wadded cash, pouring down the drain.

My poor stories, I fear, will never be the same.