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Still Life
Thrice
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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
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