The Time Is Nigh

Rotate of hands, the time is nigh, cleaves the fading digits past tense; and never will I turn back the clock, mainspring of what I once was, all that unfathomable consequence. Existence purloined, the essential clay, shaped into some art form anew and taken for your own; the damage, sweet irreversible damage, remains alternate construed. Decision fraught, the time is nigh make or break for what will be and I, in trepidation, need to know the final choice, hear the words that spell together life, or the lonely death of me.