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