Like Clockwork

The last day’s clock has been ticking.
It’s pneumatic, meaning it breathes air.
The white warty material of the universal veil
Has got the bridegroom perplexed.
His glances at the clock are similar
To those of a condemned man’s,
Noted the guy from health food store,
Who was waiting to be paid in fungi.
I swear that minute hand hasn’t moved in an hour.
Yet the clock was on a circuit that was forever
Adjusting the time to its most accurate portrayal,
The tiny nuances of its face with the fluctuations
Breathed out of it. There was a man
Who was known as The Mystic, he pick-pocketed
The pocket watch, and ran with it down the aisle.
The smiling Jesus approved, and the ceremony
Began, despite running so late the entire world
Needed wound by a hand so big nobody could see it.