Bells to Bells

Dear friend and where have we found ourselves?
Stripped us each bare and out the window,
And there exists nothing which compels
Forward motion; return sugared snow.

It always breaks down- clockwork at hand,
It always loses myself to me,
Yourself to you- nothing can be planned.
Faces, grave, at their return to sea.

Mystic and cryptic; solutions fail-
Nothing to join; only to sever,
And we know its wrong as we turn pale,
Fighting and writhing into Never.