Rain keeps falling down in streams,

drumming on my window

after falling down what seems

an endless distance, below.

Little armies of droplets, wet,

rhythm to crescendo.

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I lay silent in my bed

'cause that's all I can do.

This white noise, almost forgotten,

masking my inherent pain.

It makes wood so musty, rotten,

rust grows on my soulish chain.

I've yet to shed a tear this year,

the clouds dried up for years.

Instead I'm sitting here and hear

this rain substitute my tears.

Tomorrow is another day,

I'm listening and hoping

for clouds in my mind: go away!,

so I can stop the moping.