You tell me we can stop the rain,
You tell me that we all can change,
You tell me we can find something to wash the tears away...
And I know, of the pain, that you feel the same as me,
And I dream, of the rain, as it falls upon the leaves,
And the cracks, in the ground, like the cracks are in our lives,
They are sealed, and are now; far away...
Why is it that rain is only fun when it drums violently on a tin rooftop?
Also, I find, not for the first time, that rains are good times for contemplation, colds, soup, and (oddly) listening to heavy metal.
