Fate is a Clock

Fate is a clock; that ever-turning gear. It never moves, and always spins, all through the wasted year. If destiny was a search light, shining deep and bright, then how do we affix the beams, with yearnings of our unfinished dreams? Here, here and aye, we walk and squawk, useless talk without much balk, Death is a-coming, with Cyprus on its leash: and let its bite be the finale of reach.