Hollowed are our heads with nothings.
Thoughts or visions, wonders or bewilderments,
Are any of them distinguishable?
Are they like our own perishable
Selves, to expire, or like armaments,
Able to be picked up by other beings
To wield as perhaps even their own?

Thoughts are so fickle, each alone
Yet accompanied by so many others;
Never relating, but always grouped, 
As though together.  Are they all looped
Through our head so, each hovers
Only elusive when wanted, yet condone
We always have, their actions.

Those acts are already done
So we cannot argue - never do
Thoughts even wonder at themselves,
So they are not sentient shelves
Of stored knowledge.  So then who
Controls their procession, so seemingly random,
But having no puppeteer to blame?

Then who is responsible?  They come
With no seemly cause - no purposes
Which we can divine.  Some so pretty
Yet some ugly, and most are petty
And their quantities increase in their doses
But their existence as an excuse - Lame.
So then do we blame their necessity?