The Question

Hanging by a thread that shall so soon be cut like a redundant cobweb

I enquire at the heavens with countless questions that fall back in silence
So for what; am I gifted this prescience, that turns reason into doubt
For wit is surely lacking; save all that is ending in incessant banality
Sated so with news I turn thus to devour the past while the future waits
For within glimmers of wisdom comes a very thought; the days are made