MOHAMMED’S MESSENGER

Beneath the cloak,
his upper body is girdled
by a vest ladened with explosives

He meanders through the streets,
each step bringing him closer to martyrdom
 each heartbeat a plea for immortality

His eyes are blurry from the cataracts
of religious zeal that blinds him
from the bleating of children and stoic old women

who are, to him, mere dust particles
in a windstorm of heresy for which
he will mete out their punishment

His thoughts are locked on his reward
of a paradise filled with virgins
awaiting his arrival so that he may

devour the fruits of their chaste innocence.
His faith is as steady as the sun over Mecca
that lights his path to the bosom of Allah,

for he knows there is only one truth:
in the nanno second following his vaporization
he will either be greeted by 72 voluptuous virgins

or devolve into a baleful eternity of blackness.
Either way
he’s fucked