In the midst of my depression, I have noticed omens of my past lives.
the moments left behind in old houses, My habits layed out and discarded on my bed. I've grown estranged to their music and the lyrics that parch my tongue like bread.

The same with people, Not a moment goes by and the image of her grows blurrier. Not a moment goes by and my image grows weaker. and all the while I seek no cure so I must be all the wiser

Living up to the name shouldn't be hard
That the melancholy that ails me is just fortunes card

I'm just merely a prolonged chord on deaths strings.
or maybe a bird caged who wants to spread his wings.
Truly though,
I must be a velveteen rabbit
Burnt among the playthings