Death; Well, that's a heavy conversation to even talk about; especially for me,

"It's bound to happen", they say,

I'd know; I live it, even today,

What we don't talk about is that more than one person dies that very instant,

Besides the person itself, the little part inside, called memory,

Withering away slowly,

A reminder to hold on to, ever so closely,

In the hope it doesn't fade away.

He asks, 'Who will cry when you die?'

Oh! If only they knew,

They'd know how much we love them,

They'd drift away, with smiles, with welled eyes.

Chronicled Chaos.