Dead Man Writing

I cried today and I have not in years.
Long ago, I lost the will to cry for my earthly life.
For this body is just a faulty spark plug in a defective machine. And
what being can threaten my soul, a thing so strongly armoured in
honesty and also immortal?
No, I do not fear that I will someday die for death is always with
us;
It rocks us to sleep every night.
we hold its bony hand every time we cross the street.
It is the composer of the baby's cry;
the inspiration of our every act of daring or of passion.
No, I do not fear my own death; it is only natural.
It is for my children I cried today, for these ackward mortal
utterings, in sloppy hand and faltering ink.
But you, my creations!, are strong and noble and were not meant to die
so young.
Yet I see the buzzards circling; I see the corporate predators lurking
with malicious intent.
I will take you under my wings, my children, and with God's help, this
beak will flash like Excalibur.
But I fear that heaven would look on your slaughter and refuse to take
your part.
So Beezlebub, Lucifer, I call on you to protect these cultural
treasures, to rip apart these sniveling conformites.
But, alas!, I believe no more in hell than in heaven.
Ah!, but I have heard of a fabled but dread knight who sometimes helps
the noble against the wicked.
And I hope, dear Fate, that I still believe in you and hope also that
perhaps it is you who helps those who help themselves, for every cell
of my being is bent to this great purpose.
My song will not be drowned out by the modern roar; if necessary, I
will sacrifice like Christ and destroy like Napoleon.
Fate, my only brother, my truest friend, master that I served in
happier days: Enter into the lists and champion me to the
uttermost!