Chased by Ghosts

I hear
Them from behind.
Distorted echoes fade.
And know that like the times before,
It is no use at all to strain my ear.

I still, though, think that this time I will hear.
So I try to distinguish more.
But although I have prayed,
What do I find?
I fear.

Hope

It lays
Upon a ledge
Deep in a closet down the hall.

I (almost) wish that it will fall.
But on the edge
It stays

Yet still,
When friends arrive.
I drag it out to its display.

So when they leave, they'll turn and say
"He might survive"
I will.