Six
humans trapped by circumstances, in bleak and bitter cold.
Each
one possessed a stick of wood, or so the story told.
Their
dying fire in need of logs, the first man held his back,
for,
of the faces around the fire, he noticed one man 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.
The
last man of this forlorn group did naught except for gain,
giving
only to those who gave, was how he played the game.
Their
logs held tight in death's still hand, was proof of human sin.
They
didn't die from the cold without, they died from the cold within
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