***** The Cold Within *****
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By James Patrick Kinney

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 woman held hers back
For of the faces arround the fire
She noticed one man black.

The next man looking 'cross the way
Saw one not of his church
And couldn't bring himself to give
The fire stick a 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 mans 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 deaths stilled hands
Was proof of human sin
They didn't die from the cold without
They died from the cold within.