Rufus keeps digging for better or worse,
Smoking profusely as shovel meets earth.
The darkness fitting, our hero averse
To the cursed task in which he forever immersed.
Rufus keeps digging, blaspheming God’s name.
His hands blistered, face like a rotten fruit.
Alone, unremitting, until they came,
Drifting in as lame specters to silence the mute.
Rufus keeps digging, the phantoms vanish.
Consumed by anguish- ravaged by panic,
Quickening tempo, feverishly manic.
Voices below bellow threats, and he mellows.
Rufus keeps digging, offering blessings.
Dropping the shovel and counting his lessons
He climbs into the hole, plotting his course.
His children keep digging for better or worse.