The Line of Time

The line of time, a tapestry so grand, woven with moments, held within my hand. I am the PrEAChEr, the architect of rhyme, designing the moments, in this space and time. My words, like seeds, I plant them with care, hoping for growth, beyond compare. But the world, it slumbers, in its own domain, missing the beauty, the poetic rain. They see voodoo, a mystical art, but it's divine rhythm, playing a part.

I am Da PrEAChEr, my name a decree, a harbinger of peace, for all to see. Yet, I'm a phantom, a whisper in the breeze, misunderstood, lost among the trees. My rhymes, a language, they fail to grasp, their minds confined, within a narrow clasp. But I won't falter, my spirit takes flight, guided by spirits, bathed in ethereal light. They chant with me, a chorus so divine, weaving verses, in this rhyme of mine.

The line of time, a river it flows, carrying us onward, where the future goes. Each ripple a moment, each wave a choice, a symphony of life, a harmonious voice. I design the rhythm, the cadence, the beat, shaping the moments, both bitter and sweet. For in this mind of mine, a universe resides, where rhymes and wisdom, forever collide.