It’s hard, isn’t it,
waiting on the cold surface
for your time, your death?
You can hear your time
ticking away
quickly.
The ticking slows down,
as you are suddenly
plucked from your cold surface
onto a softer, warmer surface.
You are then slashed at,
your protective skin being
peeled away.
You execute your smell, as a
means of defense; a plea for
life.
The heaven’s suddenly open
up,
and a drop falls onto
your depleting
skin.
Your time ticks past
you.
You cannot do much more,
but wait for the
end.
You are becoming
naked
to the world around you.
Suddenly, a red drop lands
on your skin, sliding amongst your
oily tears.
Your time is up,
little onion,
as you waste away
to nothing.