I am the greatest craftsman there is

I don’t make precious jewels
Neither do I make intricate sculptures from wood or stone
I can’t even wrap my head around paintings
Nor can I claim to understand the inner workings of a clock
I don’t know the basics of baking
Needless to say I can’t go near a beautiful dress

But there is one thing I know how make
A priceless thing at that
People wish they could own it
Yet it often just slips through their fingers

Newborns have it to spare
Foggies are scrunching for more
Kids spend theirs playing and laughing
Adults often wish they had spent theirs more wisely

I’m very good at making my thing
Too bad I can’t sell it for a living
At least I can make it for myself
And give it to the people I care about

But sometimes…
The person I love about can’t give me theirs
They say…
“I don’t have enough for myself,
I don’t have enough for you”

And to that I just want to say…
“Just make more time,
I made time for you
I expected the same in return”

As well as the writer’s balcony
Dressed in the ruins of summer,
Autumn slides,
Crowding at the edges of wakefulness.
The still undiscovered adventure,
Sadness being beautiful.

The atmosphere
tense and tangible
her face evoked an attraction
it spoke of smoke
dark thoughts and calamity
after action-satisfaction
according to lore
she hails from Lexington.