The Bosom

The well runs deep, of water and fire; your bosom, warm as summer. I pant. A suckling, to quench my thirst, I pine, come for passion. Where is fountain sweet and soothing than in the desert, when the blues frown, stripped of foliage? Where does safety anchor in whirling waters but in the rock? I craved a shoulder; found your open arms, dripping sweat and blood. My pain! All gone, my head hit your bosom and struck a refreshing refrain: Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, I will give you rest. © 2016 Celestine S. Ikwuamaesi