Still Life

On the mantlepiece
There's a scrap of leather
Like a half-remembered truth or lie
And there's a photograph
Of a sun-lit garden
And the sword that seemed to burn with light

The Way
It's closed now
And I can't go home
The Way
It's closed now
And I can't go home

Near the fireplace
Black with soot and sorrow
Then the absence of synecdoche
There's a whetted axe
With a weathered handle
And the weight of it is dear to me

The Way
It's closed now
And I can't go home
The Way
It's closed now
And I can't go home

What if I, what if I just let go?
If I just let go