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The Last Accounts of John Hamilton
From hills and valleys,
Near and far.
Sails on the mysterious galley,
A man that bears a scar.
His life a sad story,
One very similar to mine.
Reaching only for glory,
And yet still conquered by time.
How, oh, how this miserable being,
Yet, clings to life on this wretched place.
Living only for what he is seeing,
His screaming heart fallen from Thy Grace.
His story lost,
In a time where he serves no purpose.
Oh, what a terrible cost,
That is at the hand of those whom usurp us.
So unto thee I ask of you,
What is this madness,
You bestow for who?
How do you empty yourself of inevitable sadness?
The story is almost complete,
The pages are ever ending;
Though the ending not discrete.
To whom those are mending,
Few and far between.
I know the truth, my acumen,
No matter how careen.
Thus, the last accounts of John Hamilton.
His death told far and wide,
For those ears whom bear to hear it.
His apparent suicide.
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