She asks death’s certain god to postpone his visit until the grandchild’s wedding and her wardrobe ready. Her travel plumes wait in a night’s black-yard. You see his smirk, her admission of defeat as uptight dress is getting ready for journey and a slip is in hand with unknown number.
Who is admitting defeat in this waiting game and who will blink first, as her eyes meet his ,in an absurd script written afresh each time with a smirk alternating between him and her?
The Morning is Just a Dream 
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