Insignificant questions

There is a reason for being,

I must believe that with every fiber of mine,

for what are we without purpose?

An empty shell? Merely a vessel?

A collection of atoms, intricately formed,

yet still of little significance against

the backdrop of trillions.

We are born, we live, we die.

So are we really so much greater than a flower,

whose entire significance for being is to produce?

What do we mean in the grand scheme?

Are we really a cosmic accident?

Just an incident? Something that just happened?

No, I say these questions don't matter,

For it is not our synonymous destination,

but the choices on the path we take,

that truly defines us.