The Idea

He gets ready, 
verses on his lips apace, 
his inner self brims with excitement,
the fear of the unknown has been cornered,
the preacher enchants few last lines,
"to ensure a smooth passage", he confirms, 
fastening the belt,
off the boy's back.
"Heaven awaits you", promises he,
no inkling of what it looks like.

He's young, restless,
greenish eyeballs, hugs an idea,
the idea of bookish world,
"unjust world full of disbelievers",
that shall be reformed.
"Reformed" with explosives,
and blood as solvent,
of those, who draw cartoons,
of those, who doubt Him,
of those, who question faith,
to avenge injustice meted out,
to his God.

The shrapnel luggage
turns out to be a bit heavier,
but he needn't stand,
he'll drive the van,
into the market,
as if a vegetable van,
but instead supply fresh death,
to vendors, homemakers,
onlookers and by-standers.

He begins,
for his last stop,
verses run on his 'head'lines,
he speeds up,
so does the uneasiness,
a stray 'why?' crosses his mind,
an idea, but not firm enough.

The horn blares,
recklessly,
follows a zig-zag trail,
until a thud! 

Ashes, 
limbs, fluids,
scattered,
the lad, young and
restless, 
flesh and bones vanish,
undone,
becomes an idea,
a failed one,
maybe, and
Heaven, did he reach there?
No idea,
no messages yet.