Prometheus for now

Often, I have this dream where I lie immobile and bare looking to the sky in a field of tall grass. I can neither speak nor blink nor cry, and were it to stop there I would not need to. 

However as I lie there, seething with quiet dread, hungering owls fly from an unseen wood and surround me and my silence. They will tear through my flesh only to reach the insects desperately swarming in my innards and burrowing into my tissue. In this moment as I hear sinews snap and see slowly the birds flee in search of another static dreamer, I no longer feel the pain of the obscenity, I never did. 

In that moment I learn to fear obsoletion, the very nature of my existence within this dream. Never was I a meal to the hungry nor matter to the soil, just a cadaver unable to rot and unwilling to oppose. The thought tends to wake me.