i found this poem in a small book that i wrote in when i was younger...im not completely sure if i wrote it or someone else but ive never heard of it before so maybe i did....oh well! i hope that you enjoy my child hood poem! its called:
The Cold Within
six humans trapped
by happens tense,
in bleak and
bitter cold,
each one possesd
a stick of wood
or so the storys 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 tatterd 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 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.
thier logs held tight
in deaths still hands
was proof of human sin,
they didnt die
from cold without
they died from the cold within...
thanks for reading it!i was surprised when i read it! its so....deep lol
AfterDark19 Community Member 
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