The Real Struggle

Slowly, focussed, like a wolf on the prowl, His hand reached out in the gloom, Straight to the throat of this tormented shade, In this seedy, dark derelict room, But the closer his hand, the dimmer the thought, This shade seemed to fade off to dark, Till there was nothing to hold, nothing to grab, Nothing but the wall made of rock, And all he could hear, inside his mind, Was the laughter of the ghost who escaped, This ghost who now lingers in his jail cell alone, This ghost who cannot be erased.