The Cold Within

James Patrick Kinney

Written in the mid 1970's - still holds true today

Six people trapped by happenstance
In the dark 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 one 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 of 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 his forlorn group
Did naught except for gain.
Giving only to those who gave
Was how he played the game.

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