Little Things Poem by David Blake

When I die where do they go my
memories, desires, sorrow and
dreams? Better yet from where
did they come? Do they die as I
or will they live on in some
unconscious space between here
and there. Did they come from
me or me from them? Do they
have meaning or place in the
order of life, or shall they pass as
a summer storm? Did they
always exist only to find me lost
in the darkness of my ignorance?
Could they exist without me, or I
them? Am I to believe that all of
this is so random, without meaning?
Have I been made aware only to pass
into eternal darkness or is their more?