And if your meticulously mixed colors
and carefully articulated strokes of the brush
happen to disintegrate in the charring of a fire

what then?

Was the time spent crafting your rolling mountains of somber lunar blue
or prickly fields of mouse-housing wheat
or soaring, rumbling majesty of an unset sky
for naught?

Does one create for the
eyes or the
currency or the
back pats?

or

Is passion crafted
simply to create
in a world of destruction?