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The Cold Within
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The Cold Within

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Six humans trapped by happenstance,
In black and bitter cold.
Each posessed a stick of wood,
Or so the story's told.
 
Their dying fire in need of logs,
The first woman held hers back,
For on the faces around the fire,
She noticed one was black
 
The next man looking 'cross 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.
 
And the last man of this forlorn group,
Did naught except for gain,
Giving only to those who gave
Was how he played the game.
 
The logs held tight to death's stilled hands,
Was proof of human sin.
They didn't die from the cold without,
They died from the cold within.

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