by Henry Lauer

A fading wisp
an insubstantial ghost
the failing trail
of an indistinct host.

My hand passes through it
though solid it be
I have hurled it away
have set myself free.

Yet, still do I wish for it
wish I were blind
to hold it so tightly
to me it I'd bind.

though I know of its poison
I know of its curse
without it I may as well be
the passenger of the hearse.