The shovel I used to dig myself into these holes its strapped to my back.
It comes with me, haunting me whenever I meet someone.
Whenever there's a situation to dig in, you best believe it's digging.
For just once I want to break it down into metal and wood.
Make ladder rungs from a haft used to dig so many graves before.
A grappling hook made from a bent shovel blade no longer used to bury the hopeless but pull out the hopeful.
Every time I get here, I realize I'm back again, not for the first time, but a repeating pattern.
I'll break it someday.
Mark my words.
I won't be  back.