Nothing but a habit, unfortunate;
That I'd stumble over the same pits, over the same stones over again.
And over the forest floor, exhausted;
I'd swear again for change like I did yesterday.
And the night would fall, bringing in a cold breeze.
A cold breeze of Lethe, deforestation of a barren mind.
And it resets again.
Nothing but a habit unfortunate.
Was but a little lie;
For also the regret grows, grows with the helplessness.
An ailment to the loss of mind.
