The Pyro Bunnies from Hell
Beneath the hush of twilight’s dying thread, where silence coats the earth in golden hush,A field once fragrant lies instead in dread, its grasses crisping into soot and slush.The air grows thick with sweetness turned to smoke, a scent of hay now fouled by flame and fur—The Pyro Bunnies come with dainty cloak, their cotton masks a charming saboteur.No trumpet blares, no beastly warning calls, just flicking ears and patterings like rain,But where they pass, the lattice of the stalls blackens to bone, then dust, then pain.
Each twitching nose—a fuse of flint and spark—betrays the fire settled in their core,Their hop a rhythm crafted to embark a ruin dancers never dared before.No fang, no horn, no grotesque form declares the devils masked in fur so slight;Instead they play, they nuzzle, they ensnare, until the barn erupts in molten light.The children wave from porches, lulled by grace, but wake to screams and skylines split with red—For fluff may shield a holocaust in lace, and lullabies may lead the newly dead.
Each bunny bounds as if to chase a breeze, a silhouette so innocent and fleet,Yet every footfall lays the roots of trees whose trunks explode with fevered, fiery heat.The flames obey them, curling in reply, like pets that leap to lap a master’s hand—Infernal heirs that gather ‘neath the sky and turn the soil to scorched and haunted land.They burn not out of hunger nor of need, nor punishment from gods in jealous fits;They burn from joy, from artistry, from creed—destruction stitched into their wits.
Behind their eyes, no mercy ever grew; no cradle rocked them with a lullaby.They came not from a mother’s womb but drew their breath from sulfur winds that never die.Born of cinder, cloaked in spun deceit, their softness hides the furnace in their chest.Where paws should press with timid, trembling feet, they stomp and scorch and bury what was blessed.Each village holds a tale too grim for ink, too shamed to speak, too ruined to forget—Of midnight flares, of eyes that did not blink, of rabbits playing god with no regret.
No salt can cleanse their prints from temple floors, no relic guards the pastures from their tread.The faithful hang their charms on every door, yet bunnies come, and every calf lies dead.Their warmth is not a balm but conflagration; their cuddles suffocate as smoke inhaled.They do not wage a war—they stage damnation, and in each hug, a kingdom is impaled.Their kind are prophets of the matchstick throne, crowned in wreaths of tinder, ash, and soot.They reign in silence, bloodless and alone, with no regret beneath each seared-off root.
And yet, they smile—their teeth pearl-white, pristine. Their fur untouched by soot, their tails intact.The flames they stir will dance where they have been, and in their wake, the world is warped and cracked.The stars retreat when first their whispers rise; the moon averts her gaze from fields that burn.The heavens watch in dread as rabbits prize the world’s last breath and give it no return.What god could sanction such a darling curse, what hell would breed such softness into spite?Each bunny winks as prophets do—perverse—and douses hope in napalm every night.
The fields remember, though the towns forget. The trees still blister where their shadows passed.And in the soil, the bones are smoking yet of those who laughed, then burned, then breathed their last.So if a twitching nose peeks through the reeds, and if a flick of ear precedes a flare,Don’t pause to wonder what that creature needs—just run, and pray, and leave it unaware.For not all monsters thunder through the trees; some softly hop, and hum, and wear a grin—And some, with every step, ignite the breeze and show the world how hellfire can begin.