Kestral at Home

The Cold Within Six Humans trapped by happenstance in bleak and bitter cold, Each one possessed a stick of wood, or so the story's told, Their dying fire in need of logs, the first man held his back, For of the faces 'round the fire, he noticed one was black. The next one, looking across the way, saw not one of his church, And couldn't bring himself to give the fire his stick of birch. The third one sat in tattered clothes and gave his coat a hitch, Why should my 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 the stick of wood was the 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. Six 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.

Author Unknown

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