dragonshiprider
Well-Known Member
- Joined
- Feb 13, 2004
- Messages
- 352
- Reaction score
- 0
Hey all!Just thought I would take a moment to wish everyone a happy holiday and a wonderful new year.May it be your best yet.
Now as anyone who knows me can probably guess I'm not the type that really digs poetry unless it has a guitar and a heavy drum beat behind it.However,the following is a quick verse sent to one of my groups by a friend of mine named Robert.This seems like a good time to share it with y'all.The meaning is just too true.Enjoy!-Russ
Six humans trapped in happenstance
In 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 helds hers back,
For of the faces around the fire,
She noticed one was black.
The next man looking across the way
Saw not one 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 sight,
For all he saw in his stick of wood
Was a change to spite the white.
The last man of this 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,
They died from the cold within.
Unknown Author
Now as anyone who knows me can probably guess I'm not the type that really digs poetry unless it has a guitar and a heavy drum beat behind it.However,the following is a quick verse sent to one of my groups by a friend of mine named Robert.This seems like a good time to share it with y'all.The meaning is just too true.Enjoy!-Russ
Six humans trapped in happenstance
In 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 helds hers back,
For of the faces around the fire,
She noticed one was black.
The next man looking across the way
Saw not one 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 sight,
For all he saw in his stick of wood
Was a change to spite the white.
The last man of this 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,
They died from the cold within.
Unknown Author
