The Cold Within

In the black and bitter cold,

Each one possessed a piece of wood

Or so the story's told.

The dying fire in need of logs

The first Women held hers back,

For among the faces around the fire

She noticed one was black.

The second man across the way

Saw one not from 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 sat back

And thought of all 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.

The last one of this forlorn group

Did not accept for gain,

Giving only to those who gave

was how he played the game.

The logs held tight in death's still hand

Was proof of human sin,

They did not die from the cold without

They died from the cold within.

       Unknown