There lay a pocket of ash,
Bubbling within, without a splash,
Sighing hopes among stranger's stash.
I never knew I had a pocket of ash.
A beating one, a bit tarnished sum.

A comedy of errors,
Darling humor me better,
Here I lay, lying to myself,
Feeling nothing within the one that felt.

A dash of sadness,
A sprinkle of madness,
Anger to ravish,
Love as its garnish,
A beating one a bit so tarnished,
A pocket of ash,
I stumble among this rampage,
Sighing hopes among stranger's stash.
Crumbling besides a pocket of ash.

Dancing like a feather's touch,
Whistling it never mattered much,
A comedy of errors, darling all I felt,
Lost in your garden of liars, I melt.

Never knew, o never knew,
I sighed hopes among a stranger's stash,
Never knew, o I never knew,
I always held a pocket of ash.

I hadn't lit a fire,
Called for your green eyes, sapphire desires,
Still I found myself roaming along dire,
With a beating one without desire,
We smoked all the stash that could be found,
Spiraled, saying we at last danced, 'we' were never a chant,
But never did we chance, darling, upon the papers where we could resign.
And so, we dived in that humble wine,
Humored ourselves until it was fine.

With a dash of sadness,
A sprinkle of madness,
Anger to ravish,
Love as its garnish,
I knew I had a beating one a bit tarnished.

Bitter I never knew, o never knew,
I sighed my hopes among a stranger's stash,
And held, always I held, a pocket of ash.