In a World Where I Do Not Exist

Does my butterfly wing flap matter to matter? Does my life extend beyond my fleeting, feeble steps in the dirt? Even the genes I pass on to my progeny, though uniquely mine, are unchanged by my own existence, per sec, here on Planet Earth. It is only my children, born to exist by me, the recombinant fusion of parents genes, that changes fates' legacy here, with a flippity flap beyond what would be: If I never existed, If I never graced this earth, If I was never remembered by loved ones and foes, If my grave never had a headstone, or I was cremated. When I die, my existence will be rendered to smoke and dust, and forgot me blots. My existence is merely a unique perception within me for the time, only when I am alive. What others see, feel, think, hear appreciate and revere, cannot be known by me or by any of the other existences, For spiritual existence is a collection the lonely lost souls staring within, at the walls. Reaching out, fleetingly bleating, holding hands with the others, but untouched, un-uttered, unheard not mattered, to what exists, in endless space and impassive time, passing to passive tense.