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.
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