I Like Muslims- Contest

You trembled the morning he asked you for bread, Unfleeting suspicions raced to your mind, Your eyes sang prayers, Prayers they hadn't sung in years, For the fireworks that you had designed. Your son had thrown stones at his door, Laughed at the kohl in his eyes, But has seen the growing patient delight, From a time when Taqiyahs did not decide, A trust borne of painful demise. The sonorous boom of a detonation, Red alleys in the streetlight, Or the delicate emulsion of blood in rain, Whence left behind their daunting stain, Had blurred your trusting sight. The night he returned, His kohl mixed with blood, And a cape of colours dressed his skin, A part of you died within, A pain in your heart churned. You touched the ground, Hoping to clean his blood off the porch, The stains remained, You hoped that his body decayed, But his torso blessed the floor. The 5 o clock prayers, the ones you loathed, your ears yearn to touch their notes, The taqiyah soaked in sweat, You hold it closer to your chest, and as soon as those feelings were loaned, You only found his stolen bone.