Ten years from now, the storm
Will find itself but a shoreless tide,
Lapping at God's feet like puppies
Brought from the shapeless form
Of an unwanted bag on the roadside;
Having beaten down the deep seas
To the bottom of the ocean.

Ten years from now, the sunshine
Will find itself but a beach boys song
Laughed at by the elderly as old
And left to crackle fireside and pine
For the sky's bustle and throng;
Having once been made of gold,
Knowing no longer motion.

Ten years from now, the moon
Will find itself but a drooping advert
Dismissed by the breezy whispers
Of dimpled demographics and goons,
Needing a leading industry expert;
Having already burst its starlit blisters,
Lacking now instict and notion.

Ten years from now, no zoos
Will find within themselves life,
Replaced instead with holograms
Of fictional lesser spotted kangaroos
And the twentieth century wife;
Having got rid of mums and prams
And filled up on potion.

Ten years from now, time
Will cease to be carry with it change,
Intent to bulge its pockets rather
With the notes of the past in rhyme
Composed by monkeys in chains;
Having first shaved with no lather,
Chin now loaded with lotion.