There's a hollow kind of despondency
as you reminisce of home,
find yourself alone
But it soon fades and you're left
with discontent.

For there's always a harsher journey,
always a greater Odyssey,
always that which you cannot do.

And we all want to be travellers, unravellers
of mysteries, explorers and deplorers
of comfort.

But we can't. And that's not our fault,
that's just because there's only so much
You can bring about in the world.
Because really we're all hurled
around on the oceans of chance
And so; for the most part you're left
with discontent.

Which is why I wrote this.