I was witnessing my flesh deteriorating.
Bugs, worms, and fungus were having feast celebrating my dissolution,
though it seemed I was exploding instead of shrinking.
I was being eaten in all the angles possible, yet I felt no pain.
I was not alive, though my awareness was keener than ever.
There was a sense of pleasure and satisfaction in decaying.
Nothing could interfere in this ultimate pleasure, or if something did, it did not matter.
There were no fear, because the survival was not imposed,
for you cannot kill a corpse more than it is already dead.
Death and deterioration mean: abalienating to another mode of existence!
Every different segment of the soil was taking a part in the procession of my decaying.
They all were taking me apart, enjoying my once sum of consciousness, splitting to worms, insects, fungus, and greens.
It seemed I was giving back what I had taken erstwhile.
Yet repaying was more luscious than the receiving.
And strangely so it seemed more familiar, and less throbbing, than my ego.
I was no more lonely. I was being absorb by everything
while I was turning to nothing.