Fallen pieces of wood collected 
And arranged neatly in a pit;
Some stood perfectly well 
While some were made to fit.

The fire waited impatiently 
For the woods to be soaked in oil
While bitter doings surfaced up
Causing the heart to recoil.

The cold wind stayed put 
To let the rest of the heart 
Be marinated by the bitterness 
That had univitedly given a start.

The bonfire stood fiercely tall,
Not to provide warmth in the cold,
But to gauge the unabated guilt 
That always remained untold.