'The Cold Within'

Just want to share this lovely poem...sad but so true..

'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 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 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 gainGiving only to those who gave, was how he played the game

Their 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.

"Stars hide your fires..
let not light see my deep and dark desires"

'It's not the mountain that we have to conquer, but ourselves'
- The 1st man to ever climb the everest.