Wasted

The beauty, it does not last.

Day by day the artist works. He sculpts with his hands and mind. The sweat of his brow, the pictures of his mind. These are the fruits of their labor.

The carpenter takes their saw and chisel. The wood of the tree is chipped and broken. Nails pierce into the wood, and bind together the pieces.

The chair stained, and the artist sells his wares. Those who buy it take it to their home, and live for a season.

The times grow hard, the couple moves. What was their home is now a vacant room, yet their possessions remain.

In but a moment the work is undone. They come in to prepare the room for another, and the remnants of the former resident are taken away as if they had never been.

Was it all for nowt? For all thins pass away, and in time it is as if they had never been.