Trudging into the rotting forest, behind the wooden fence,
the man bows his head, thinking of what he saw.

The snow lie blood-soaked, velvet red, and the sky lay in monotone grays.
Choosing his /path down the worn, muddy, cobblestone, he d
r
a
g
s on.

Glancing back, he spots the thr33 in the trampled, dirty snow.
The thr33 marks where his wife used to be.

Where she sang lullabies to their children, shared picnics & pictures in the park.
Where she was torn to pieces, head to toe; where she was taken from him.

Amongst the snow, blood and memories, she left another part for him to see.
She left a shiny, golden band, meant for her left hand.

Reading the inscription, “until death do us pa/rt”,
he clings to the ring, weeping for the hand that used to wear it.

Trudging out of the rotting forest, in front of the wooden fence,
the man bows his head, thinking of what he saw.