still life

Thrice

On the mantelpiece there's a scrap of leather
like a half remembered truth, or lie
And there's a photograph of a sunlit garden
and a sword that seemed to burn with light

The way is closed now, and I can't go home
The way is closed now, and I can't go home

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

The way is closed now, and I can't go home
The way is closed now, and I can't go home

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