There are mornings one wakes in desolation,

wondering what sorrows the world and all its creatures are bearing,

or not bearing.

You walk with a slump,

burdened by you know not what,

wondering if today the whole cosmos will wilt

under the weary procession of contempt and unkindness,

the endless spats of vitriol,

the cowering over the other,

the unyielding, unforgiving boast,

the push to overlord,

to step upon those beneath.

It all presses down.

And you carry it, because,

today it is yours to carry,

as tomorrow it will fall to someone else.

But that someone sees,

and honours your burden,

well, 

that is love.

Others,

who do not see with tender regard,

will just ask you to stop slouching.