Her Bossom Poem by Gerald Opio

Just as a baby finds comfort in the bossom of its mother, So do I from my consort.

Her bossom houses two soft heaped like features, that act like my herbour of solace at night.

Her bossom embedded with two cushion like organs, my love pillows they are.

Her breasts satiate me always, intoxicate me with love.

She is my sachet of myrrh as I rest between her breasts.

Her breasts are my cluster of grapes on the vine, the fragrance of her intermammary cleft like that of apples.