The Choices We Make

Down the Lake the ripples flow

As the men get on the shore

Stranded from the ship they cruised

The men get on the floor

The eyes meet with no word exchanged

When the island is revealed

There is sadness in the winter air

As the feelings are all feeled

The three troop on a rocky shore

As astonishment is felt

A little lamp is in the middle

Of little crows and their pelts

The first one takes the lamp and says:

“Genie, I summon you!”

With its entire splendor it’s revealed

“I grant you wishes two!”

“I want a chest of bright bright gold,

And a way back to homeland”

The genie shouted with all his voice

“Then it shall be, my young, young man”

The second man takes the yellow lamp

And shouts the same thing two

The genie grants all his wishes

And turns without a care

The third, a bit of an idiot shouts

“Wait, wait for me!

Grant me those two wishes

For I have need of thee!”

“Give me a lamp of yellow light

WAIT- I am feeling Lonely!”

So give me my two little friends

And I will me as happy as can be!”

The genie laughed his hearty laugh

And summons the other two

“Now I am leaving you all
So stay with you're choices under sky blue"

~ CT

LiveHeavenorhell

is it live heaven or hell, or live heaven nor hell? just something to think about

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The Cold Within

The Cold Within

Six humans trapped by happenstance
In black 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 woman 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 man 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 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 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,
They died from the cold within.