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Very soon,

We will live,

In the future.

Things change,

Children grow.

We will be wrinkled.

Cars will fly,

Ants will rule.

Grey garbs everywhere,

Mind and matter,

No battles there.

Laughter will be chaotic,

Extraterrestrials far away.

In the summertime,

Butterflies will be chased.

Underground

I had a question about a software,

It apparently malfunctioned.

The beeps and clicks didn’t fire.

The hardware was all haywire.

Banging hard at the keys,

Didn’t help the screen get bright.

Things ejected and whirred,

The camera I didn’t know, 

Flashed brilliant and blurred.

Over thirty-six buttons,

And none of them said “Fix”.

Blue flashes and red lights,

Blinked and turned green;

Methinks aliens had landed on screen.

Unwired and unplugged,

I let the machine drain.

Juiced it up again,

Only to see a broken dud.

What was this contraption?

What was this trepidation?

I read Samuel Johnson,

He knew nothing of this brazen oxen.

If only software and hardware,

Can be as simple as Tupperware.

With an airtight press and click,

It preserves a severed head like a brick!