The PrEAChEr's Name

The letters stand tall, a beacon in the haze, Da PrEAChEr, my name, in these rhyming days. They spell out a truth, a whisper, a plea, For PEACE, for all souls, for you and for me. But hate’s a dark shadow, a phantom I chase, My message misunderstood, lost in this place. They see only voodoo, a hocus-pocus art, When I plant seeds of wisdom, right from my heart.

I walk through this world, a stranger, unseen, My words like lost echoes, a forgotten dream. The laughter, the scorn, the sideways glance, They paint me a madman, caught in a trance. Yet deep in my core, a fire burns bright, A river of rhythm, a celestial light. The spirits they gather, a ethereal choir, Their voices a symphony, feeding my fire.

“They don’t understand,” I whisper low, To the unseen companions, wherever I go. “They judge me by shadows, by what they perceive, The seeds that I scatter, they refuse to believe.” A sigh, like the wind through ancient trees, Carries my sorrow on the evening breeze. This name, it's a burden, a title I bear, A promise of peace, met with despair.