"Strike"

Mr. Clock,
Stop your turning.
Your hands move too fast,
Forever burning.

A flower planted,
Just the other day.
A victim of snow,
Wilting away.

The kite soars,
Innocence in flight.
But, inevitably,
The suitcase is gripped tight.

There’s a point in time,
When it slows.
Wisdom becomes irrelevant,
Everyone knows.

A laugh is heard,
His hand strikes once more.
The smile diminishes.
Mr. Clock, don’t you ever get soar?