Drip, Drip,
Drop.
The pitter-patter of raindrops,
Tap.
While the city,
Shivers from a cold-snap.
A woman sits, with book in hand,
Fingering wet pages in the rain.
She’s flying high in dreamland,
Working double-shifts in her brain.
On a cold, dark, and empty night,
Under the smoldering of a streetlight,
Lost upon a green park bench,
Swimming only in her heart-wrench.
She hopes to pass this lonely age,
With a flipping of the pages.
Maybe, fiction’s better than reality?
Inside the book, her woes are more carefree.
Even the rain can’t stop her spending,
Her free time, looking for that happy ending.
Blog of the Wolf Boy 
I like the idea of reading in the rain; this totally fits me (metaphorically as well).
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What a lovely poem ❤ Thanks for sharing. Reality is harsh but still better than fiction. But fiction had help me so much cope from my depression since childhood. So during those time, fictions are better than reality.
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To be honest, I was listening to writing music on youtube and there was a powerful image in the background of a woman reading in the rain on a park bench under streetlights. I just wrote her story. I loved the image.
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talk about getting lost in a book!
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