time runnning out

as ghost do phantom,
the hour of plain existance,
the time ran clock
to date thy mirth,
sepaerate lyes,
the cord that strangles
and the memories that bear,
you take the clock,
to break and hope that time stands still,
but at yet,
the world still spins,
and the ache still portrays,
that death still comes,
it moves slow,
but attacks at will,
every hour,
every second,
every moment,
still,
your hands hurt,
your dreams reveal,
your breath pants,
as it is taken from your body in mere segement of time,
the grave,
only since birth beckons and the will of both demons and angels sting as it plunders you from the skies,
your dreaming,
yet innocent,
stolen from your very palms,
as lies and visions invade your way,
your recokened with yet truth holds no conspect,
and the very spirit in you dies...