Did He Smile His Work To See? Did He Who Make The Lamb Make Thee?

*This is a previous post written elsewhere, but I felt the urge to post it here, where it seems more suitable.*

There is a long journey not far ahead of me. though most could say that life itself is a long journey I don't want to waste time on that cookie-cutter bullshit line of excuses. I speak of the reality in my future. Necessity on a non-basic level is the composition of acquired wisdom throughout one's life combined with the promptings of ones soul. If to believe in a soul means to believe in a higher power, then be it as it may, I do believe in one such a thing. But would not a soul be as one wishes it to be? A soul to me is something of my metaphysical compostion. Or, if there is another way I could put it, it would be the creative grain from which I harvest the means of my understanding and interpretation of life itself. Outward from the soul and inward to the mind. All of this entreats my journey to the extent that I feel from it I will enlight, idulge, and divulge the elements and properties gained from one such a journey. The means and destinations of travel are of no consequence and are trivial illusion at best. It is the transition within that does the real damage, if you will. I dedicate the following to my journey, and it is also my most recent literary atribute. Interpret as you must.

Child of the grain,
Sired, raised and slain
By the whisper of the word
From the maker, for his mirth.
On the soft and distant plain
Storms that form are seen afar
With flighty might do we disperse
We carry your misfortunate scar.
With doom incited by the cause
Its reformation takes avow
Returning to our wayward hearts
Some kind of change; we feel you now.
Maker of the child,
Dangerous, free and wild,
By what immortal hand
Do you justify command?
From the ocean spray abroad
Stretching sails make wayward rasps
Returning home from storms or squalls
One man aboard, he is the last.
From fear a vigilance is made
The message passed is not defeat
But when he heard the child slain
Into the deep did he retreat.
And when the parchment passes
When all is done and found resuming
The maker free, the woeful longing
The spirit of the soul exhuming
Is the spirit of the child;
Through waves or plains,
He moves forever free.