Yet I find self conducting one in my thoughts.
Autopsies of how they treated me.
Autopsies of what they said to me last.
Autopsies of rejection, devastation, defeats and regrets like an unending river terrorises the weary soul.
Everyday, my perplexing thoughts, the harbinger of autopsies they become.
A continuous sailing in the ship of fools hoping to find the shore of rest in the harbour of utopia.
Restrain yourself, I try
But vain is the effort of man.
What wisdom is born on the day of autopsies?
What benefits does it behold?
No autopsy ever woke up the dead. Neither does it reverse injustice.
Save give birth to more avoidable pain.
A report without life like the bouquet that rests on a casket.
Pull down I must, the Cenotaph of morbid thoughts with its chambers of coffins and ghosts.
The embalmed sympathy thoughts reeking the odors of unhappiness must be sacked to end it’s endless ransacking of the sacredness of tranquillity.
Terror voicing the fearful future has become like rats nibbling away at the already festering sores of my thoughts of regret.
I must do away with the hearse of anguish bearing the reports of ancient and modern autopsies of my losses.
I must walk away from the mortuary of constant sorrow and neglect it’s graveyard forever.
I must forgive men and love them with passion of a woman enamoured by love at first sight.
I must build new thoughts today devoid of morbid autopsies of the yester-years of lamentable woes.
I must do the audacious to end the sad postmortem reports from streaming in .
The continuous disection of the unpalatable I must abandon.
What you said and what they did must no longer be my bread of life.
For the sons of men will not change neither do they care.
The earth drained of men who can share pain.
The earth framed with men who desire gain whilst drinking the blood of another’s hurt.
Women it is filled with, who never empathise.
Interest and gain, all they care.
Birthing more autopsies of thought.
Questions of my soul why? why?
Echoes of the footsteps of silence the response I beget.
The non-stop playing of the record of errors in my thoughts need Divine surgery.
I have a Maker and must embrace His Divine Light.
It is my life and my Salvation.
I must behold the KING for He lives and dies no more.
I must uphold the Most High in all my thoughts.
His thoughts of me are thoughts of good with no germ of evil in it.
Pure thoughts I embrace whenever I drink from the Living Waters of DIVINITY.
No more autopsies of thought of any kind. Autopsies are sad.
But His Word maketh me glad