Six humans trapped by happenstance
In bleak and bitter cold,
Each 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 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.

The last man of this forlorn group
Did nothing except for gain
Giving only to those whose gave
Was how he played the game.

Theirs logs held tight in death's still hands
Was proof of human sin
They didn't die from the cold without
They died from the cold within.

- James Patrick Kinney

© Enigma