Morpheus

Sleep, perchance to dream, the poet wrote, Rest in the arms of Morpheus. To dream of places you have been, Of times you lived and sights you've seen. But sleep won't come no matter how tired, Your body is wracked but your brain is fired. Counting sheep is no help, so you reject, Counting backward, the same effect. Wonder now, should I take a pill? Or do I have a long night to fill? Soft breathing wife, in slumber deep, Into a book I decide to peep. Sleep! Morpheus has gathered me up at last. © Dave Timperley April 2016