At the last
There are certain themes
The intrest in them can be all asorbing
There are certain ideas
Of when we let our thoughts wonder, there are no limits
There are few romantisist
The feeling of love is all they crave
Where the ideas of travel
And the theams of instinct
Inter twine with passion of love
Lifting us from blood, toil, and sheaded tears
From the frosty relms
Came a hand
Made of ice
Its resting spot
Held on the crown of my forhead
Halting the activities
And the process of bias thought
Givin a choice
What image would I choose?
poem by Howard Johnson
Added by Poetry Lover
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