A difference

Every day, giving up sits on
Your chest like an 
Inevitability.
Buried in impossibility,
Sitting on the edge of a mountain that 
Should be moved,
Barely breathing for the weight
Of the weight of the rock
Before you,
You feel it is your right to give up.

But in you, beyond the din
Of the laughs and the
Punches and the piles heaped upon you
Day in, day out,
There is something. 

Some thing moves you
To move your tired, bleeding hand
To the small fragment of rock beside you
And toss it off the pile.

And it rolls down, down, beyond
Your line of sight and you are 
Tired. Done. "What is
The point?" you sigh.

And your eyes close,
And your lungs begin 
To give out while your tiny,
Tiny rock rolls down, building momentum
And gently taps the head
Of the one below you
And wakes them up, and then
They move their tired, bleeding hand
To the small fragment of rock beside them
And toss it off the pile.