POEM TITLED : THE COLD WITHIN

The Cold within

A POEM TITLED : THE COLD WITHIN 

                      

Six humans trapped by happenstance

In black and bitter cold

Each one possessed a stick of wood

Or so the story told

Their dying fire in need of logs

The first woman held hers back

For the faces around the fire,

She noticed one was black

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 back and thought

Of the wealth he had in store,

And how to keep what he had earned

From the lazy, sliffless 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 forlora group

Did naught except for gain

Giving only to those who gave,

Was how he played the game

The logs held tight death’s stilled hands

Was proof of human sin

They did not die from the cold without

They died from the cold within.

"Life is a lot like a game of tennis,

Those that do not serve well end up loosing"