Six humans traped by happenstance,
in a black bitter cold,
each one possessed a stick of wood,
or so the told.



Their dying fire in need of logs,
the first woman held hers back,
for of the faces around the fire,
she noticed one was black.


The next man looking across the way,
saw one not of his church,
and couldnt bring himself to give
the fire his stick of birch.


The third 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,shifless 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.


And the last man of this forlon group
did naught except for gain,
giving only to dose who gave
was how he played his game.


The logs held tight in deaths stilled hands
was proof of human sin
they didnt die from the cold without,
they died from cold within.

Culled from 'imitation is limitation'by JOHN MASON

Nice one. Do you write as well?

abdulslutsky: Nice one. Do you write as well?

nt really...just ds nd decided to post it here

Imitation is limitation. Preach it

Nice poem @emeralddayo

LogoDWhiz: Nice poem @emeralddayo

fenks