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THE COLD WITHIN
Six humans trapped by
happenstance
In black and bitter cold
Each one possessed a stick of wood,
Or so the story’s told.
Their dying fire in need of
logs,
The first woman held hers back
For on the faces around the fire
She notices one was black.
The next man looking across the
way
Saw one not of his church,
And couldn’t bring himself to give
The fire his stick of birch.
The third one sat in tattered
clothes
He gave his coat a hitch.
Why should his log be put to use
To warm the idle rich?
The rich man just sat back and
thought
Of the wealth he had in store.
And how to keep what he had earned
From the lazy, shiftless poor.
The black man’s face bespoke
revenge
As the fire passed from his sight,
For all he saw in his stick of wood
Was a chance to spite the white.
And the last man of this forlorn
group
Did naught except for gain.
Giving only to those who gave
Was how he played the game.
The logs held tight in death’s
still hands
Was proof of human sin.
They didn’t die from the cold without,
They died from the cold within.
Author Unknown
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