The path is a mirror,
so you're always heading back.
No way to make the right choices,
no way to return home.
Because the center cinches,
it presses the past into a thin line
which blinks and burps out of existence.
Where you and I leave off is always just behind,
and I leave you in a path I'd never want to see again.
But mirrors are circles.
I'll keep coming back, always.