Here a speaker admits that old habits are creeping back. The poem is only a few lines long, and the short opening ones, "All my old ways. / Haunt me again," land like a confession said quietly. The third line then lists what those ways are: cocaine, alcohol, and the "silly mind games" the speaker plays to stay awake. Calling them "silly" suggests the speaker sees how petty and self-defeating they are, yet keeps doing them anyway.
The last line widens the view. The speaker wants to avoid "the parade," which seems to mean the crowd or ordinary march of life, while admitting that "we're shuffling closer to our grave." The word "shuffling" makes death feel slow, tired, and unavoidable, and "we" suggests everyone is on the same path. The mood is weary and bleak, with a flicker of dark humor. The speaker sounds worn out, caught between wanting to hide from the world and knowing time keeps moving regardless.