The Rhyme's Foundation

The whisper of the wind through the ancient eaves, it carries the secrets, the truths that deceive. They think it's just talk, a casual spree, but the cranny and nook, that's where the soul of me, takes root and unfurls, like a bloom in the dirt, a diamond unearthed, escaping the hurt. You see, the world rushes by, in a blur and a haste, missing the details, the flavors, the taste. They look at the surface, the shine and the gleam, but the substance resides, in the depths of the dream. My mind, it's a garden, where seeds are sown deep, of moments and lessons, the promises I keep. Each thought takes its shape, a rhythm, a rhyme, a melody woven, through the fabric of time.

I watch the old woman, her hands gnarled and worn, mending a sock, since the day she was born. In that simple act, a story unfolds, of patience and labor, of worth that beholds. The threads interlace, a pattern they make, like the lines of my verse, for goodness sake. The hurried commuter, with eyes fixed ahead, oblivious to beauty, the words left unsaid. A fleeting expression, a shadow, a sigh, a universe captured, as moments drift by. These fragments of living, they swirl and they blend, a tapestry woven, that has no true end.

They ask me, “Da PrEAChEr, how do you devise, these intricate verses that capture the skies?” They see the grand structure, the peaks and the spires, but miss the foundation, the smoldering fires. It’s not from on high, a bolt from the blue, but from the mundane, the honest and true. The coffee cup’s ring, on the table of wood, a mark of existence, misunderstood. The laughter of children, a cacophony bright, a symphony played, in the fading daylight. The groan of a floorboard, a sigh from the past, a story to tell, meant forever to last.