Morphine Poem by robert dickerson

Practically indistinguishable, the two
lovely young forms. True, the one,
though paler, seems stronger,
and graver, I should probably add,
than his twin, who claps me in his arms,
nodding and smiling, nodding and laughing;
it may even be the case his winding crown
bristling with poppies, has brushed my head,
purging my soul of care, albeit
briefly-such respite is always short-lived;
only when his stern mate lowers his torch
for good will my bliss be permanent, and then alone-
for though sleep is good, Death is better.
Not to be born, of course, is better still.

Heine-