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