Where's The Sense In It Poem by Victor Charles

I spend time and money to learn the trade.
At long last, I acquire the knowledge and skill attached to it.
Though I am talented, I still work hard to improve on my skills and finishing.
When I am done, I put my talent on display and set a price on it.
People see it and come for it. They come to buy it.
We go into negotiating its price.
An agreement is reached and purchase is made.
They buy my skill and take it away.
But where on earth do they go with it?
What becomes of something which took me time, energy and skill to produce?
They pierce the ground to certain depths and there they bury my skill.
It may have served its singular purpose; to bank the remains of human existence
But it's hard to see the sense in it
That a craft demanding of labour, time and skill;
The one once protected from dust and dirt
And eventually bought with money,
Will end up covered in the ground;
This time with lots of dust and dirt
And left to rot in the sands
If this isn't a twist of fate;
Then it's one of life's most famous ironies
That leaves me with a question to ask:
Where's the sense in it?