The Cold Within

Six humans trapped by happenstance

In bleak and bitter cold.

Each one possessed a stick of wood

Or so the story is told.

Their dying fire in need of logs,

The first man held his back.

For of the faces 'round the fire

He noticed one was black.

The second, looking across the way

Saw one not of his church.

And could not bring himself to give

The fire his stick of birch.

The third man 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 he'd kept what he had earned

From the lazy, worthless poor.

The black man's face spoke revenge

As the fire passed from his sight.

For all he saw in his stick of wood,

Was a chance to spite the white.

The last man of this forlorned group

Did nothing, except for gain.

Giving only to those who gave

Was how he played the game.

Their logs held tight in Death's still hands,

Was proof of human sin.

For they didn't die from the cold without,

They died from the cold within.