Layer upon layer, it has
Been unfolding, peeling off
Easily from first contact to
Current, burning the eyes
With its pungent aroma,
Cloying, and strong, leaving
The eyes watery and runny
Bulbous and purplish, shiny
On the outside, soft white
Pulp on the inside, reeking
Of onion sap, soon to be cut
And pasted to the frying pan
Where there’s instant sizzle
The hot oil chars the veggie
Clear skies abound as the peels
Come of, conundrum resolved, as
Layer after layer is shorn, and
Floated away into the horizon
Where it floats in the ethereal
Balmy, windy swept ridges away
Not to be redone, allure or no
Heading to the core, the crux
The motherlode, the hot lava
Rock that is slowly melting
As the protective layers are
Peeled off and chopped into the
Frying pan, or oven char-grilled
Until a crispy golden brown, yes
The day shall come when the inner
Pulp, will be exposed and the loud
Palpitations, panting and puffing
Will signal the end of the long
Layered structure that bravely
Stood against the foreboding
Which was actually unfounded
