Still Life
On the mantelpiece
There's a scr*p 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
But what if I
What if I just let go?
If I just let go
