The Pyro Bunnies’ Deception
In meadowlands once kissed by light, where peace was sown in rows and shade,Now scorched and broken underfoot by creatures falsely heaven-made.The pyro bunnies dance with grace—soft-footed jesters of the flame,Their charm a shroud, their warmth a lie, each hop a pawn in some dark game.Their coats, the hue of milk and snow, betray no hint of what they bring,But hide beneath that downy sheath a furnace fit for suffering.
They twitch, they preen, they blink so slow, and watchers smile without suspect,Unknowing that the fields will burn before the dawn can resurrect.A whisker flick, a twitch of ear, and suddenly the stars grow dim,As fire arcs from cotton paws and razes forest, farm, and limb.They do not hiss or roar or howl, they do not chase or even growl,Yet where they tread, the roses blacken, and prayers turn bitter in the cowl.
No warning given, no intent confessed, no growl, no hunger drawn in breath—Just innocence in perfect form disguising beautifully their death.They congregate near wooden beams and barns with straw so dry and frail,Then vanish in a blaze of sparks, the ash their trail, the wind their tale.One hop too near, and cities fold; one blink, and grass ignites from frost—All done by paws so soft and small, the world confused by what it lost.
No scripture ever wrote them in—no beast of myth in such disguise,Could mock the trust of men so well while holding brimstone in their eyes.A mother calls her children in, too late, for fire licks the sill,The yard is bright with bunny flares, their silhouettes both soft and still.What horror wrapped in plush could breed such malice with such ease?They charm, they kill, they smirk, they flee—a genocide designed to tease.
The skies, once blue, are rusted now, with drifting smoke from bunny raids,Their trails of soot mark maps of ruin, old orchards turned to burning glades.Each field they cross becomes a pyre, each garden scorched, each fence unmade,Their chaos wrought not out of hunger—but simply joy in what they laid.They do not need, they do not build, they never speak or show remorse,Just silent sprites with burning hearts who carve their path with fire’s force.
The world keeps pace in disbelief, still pointing blame at beast or foe,While bunnies smirk from blackened hilltops, watching embers fall below.Their eyes, like candles snuffed in hell, contain no light but pure intent,Not rage, not need, not even thrill—just instinct wired for torment sent.And in their wake, the air grows still, the ground a grave for what was green,A world deceived by softness once, now ruled by bunnies cruel and keen.
Beware the ones whose joy feels clean, whose innocence seems out of place,For sometimes fire wears a smile, and carnage comes with a gentle face.Their grace conceals a will to burn, their bounce a war march in disguise,And every time they leap through flame, the ash reflects their glassy eyes.For charm is not the antidote, and cuteness does not cleanse the blade—The deadliest things wear fluff and silk, and smother worlds in what they’ve made.