As she set the last pile aflame 
you could hear muffled cries lingering in the air. 
Cries; aghast at their certain demise. 
The fire rages on, fueled by love. 
But if love is so wonderful and wholesome, 
why must it annihilate all those who lay their credulous heads upon its breasts? 
It takes you in its warm embrace,
and leaves you shivering in the numbing, Arctic winter. 
It whispers false promises of eternal euphoria, and to never be forsaken. 
It weaves its meticulous lies, camouflaged by false hope and cultural veneration. 
Love is not grand; love is not but agony. 
Love is not but a monster who preys on the naïve.

As I sit upon this smoldering bridge, I have only myself to blame;
I let myself fall victim to the fraudulent, frigid flame.