Philosophy of Meaning

Once I wondered,
as many children have,
what the world meant,
what life found in its simplicity,
and what I was meant for.
I thought and pondered for many long years,
and never found my answer.
Am I meant for something,
are any of us?
What does life find in us,
worthy of its gift,
that we might change what was there,
if only a little.
Or are we only little specks of stardust,
floating aimlessly,
lone candles in the long, quiet dark,
souls tethered by a thin hope,
that we have purpose.
What are we?
If not us,
then are we a that,
or are we nothing.
Are our legacies as stable as the heavens above,
Or ephemeral as the shifting Seas?
What is our life, in the greatest terms,
but what we leave behind for the future.
But do we truly die when we are forgotten,
or can we live on, in a way,
Silently watching as the blue sky turns to dusk,
or as the sun sets on the world,
as forest fade to dirt,
meadows to ash,
and the seas to long dead pools of ice.
Is it then, such a bad thing to wish for the void,
for the long dark to encompass us,
why can we live on, when all about us dies in sorrow.
Is there no greater torment to live then,
watching as the Days of summer fade,
and the Years of long winter set in.