The pitter-patter of raindrops,
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.