To: Solon who wrote (29492 ) 8/10/2012 5:28:12 PM From: 2MAR$ Respond to of 69300 Its the worm, microbes & bacteria that always win in the end facilitating our discorporation & reincorporation in endless cycling . One form of merry immortality we leave some traces of ourselves behind in the world , yet still to this day burial in metal coffins still is the ritual but what fearful weird nonsense is this ? The body is rich in phos , iron , calcium & potassium why not bury me under a tree , a redwood or an oak ? (or creamation which leaves mostly those , absolutely all the best nutrients for plants but does take energy ) Stems all the way back to the terror filled fear early Christians being buried whole for without this there could be no bodily resurrection . Still is and has been a recurring nightmare which had people paralyzed with fear in Victorian England of being buried alive . Why Edgar Allen Poe's books hit such a chord . For all the hope religion perpetuates it is balanced with terror & fears just under the surface , what one would expect since reality & what we project in our fantasies is unreconciled . They do have the ashes to ashes & dust to dust part right but in the end its always the Conquerer Worm that is victorious ! For Syria , for the Holocaust , for Stalin, Mao , Pol Pot , Black Plague, Hiroshima , all the legendary Wars , famines , genocides & mass extintinctions of the past . Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849) THE CONQUEROR WORM. LO! 't is a gala night Within the lonesome latter years! An angel throng, bewinged, bedight In veils, and drowned in tears, Sit in a theatre, to see A play of hopes and fears, While the orchestra breathes fitfully The music of the spheres. Mimes, in the form of God on high, Mutter and mumble low, And hither and thither fly— Mere puppets they, who come and go At bidding of vast formless things That shift the scenery to and fro, Flapping from out their Condor wings Invisible Woe! That motley drama!—oh, be sure It shall not be forgot! With its Phantom chased for evermore, By a crowd that seize it not, Through a circle that ever returneth in To the self-same spot, And much of Madness, and more of Sin And Horror the soul of the plot. But see, amid the mimic rout, A crawling shape intrude! A blood-red thing that writhes from out The scenic solitude! It writhes!—it writhes!—with mortal pangs The mimes become its food, And the angels sob at vermin fangs In human gore imbued. Out—out are the lights—out all! And over each quivering form, The curtain, a funeral pall, Comes down with the rush of a storm, And the angels, all pallid and wan, Uprising, unveiling, affirm That the play is the tragedy "Man," And its hero the Conqueror Worm.