The waning clock by beau Bilbo

The waning clock by beau Bilbo
I am worried sick, watching the dreadful countdown of a disarray.
The clock is ticking, and there is no way to stop the moving gears.
We live a world, of confusion and false illusion through the pigmentation of our eyes.
Walking a path of uncertainty, and worry that somethings will never be set, before death's hands lay
hands around our world view.
The clock ticks upon a spinning conundrum, that many presume as a normal rhythm.
The cracks, and old fractures of great grandfather clock, represent a meaningful lost message of time.
I wield a broken pencil of answers and meaning, but the clock is waning, ticks of scarce calamity.
I can't see though the mist and gray of uncertainty, and where it is leading me.
The clock is ticking faster and slower, as a rhythm of constant argument and insanity, cracks are forming upon crystal imagery, blocking precise judgment.
I am losing an insight to what is leading me, into it's unknown chambers of missing connection, to what is really reality.
I am trying, to weave together what is really happening upon the confusion of invading conspiracy.
The clock is breaking, slowing down to screeching halt unsure of what to do, with it's limited virtue, and answers to begging hand.
I am floating abroad from the sandy beaches of understanding, and what really is a reality.
I have slipped into a cramped opening upon the sand, worried to step out and face the demanding commonwealth.
I have stayed within a barrier of false ideals and safety to a makeshift image, with a blurry focus upon the writers table and strewed broken pencils.
I can't keep up with all the watching eyes, as they are seeking answers to a confused man who really doesn’t know why he's pulling an illusion, of envious uncertainty.
The waning clock is ticking, and I am lost beyond control, to really to understand why I am trying to fix my certain demise.
The waning clock is broken, spinning out of control to what is really real, and what is really not there, upon eyes of twisted judgment.
I am staring into a depth of darkness, and anxiety unable to quit, instead of looking for a real solution.
I am smashing my head, against the clock out of frustration of hopes of crying, out to those I thought as allies.
The waning clock, is staring back at me with a timer, and I must go before the disarray continues to damage the fabrics of my sanity.
But with waning time, what's the point to run and hide, when the clock has left me to decide
the path.