Are You Thinking Yet?

It's funny, I find, how these things go,
A roundabout circle where nothing does flow,
A statue lacking any reason to show,
A thick book without it's pages.

So why, I ask, are we really here?
Do we truly think that our lives are sincere?
Do we search for a purpose year after year?
Do we know something's going on?

So silly, I say, for us to think,
That we exist so far away from the brink,
That we're not a broken and trailing link,
That nothing can stand in our way.

But you, I know, don't think of these things.
Just riches and jewels and powerful kings,
Just money and glitter and expensive rings,
Just when do you plan on knowing?