Bunnies

A poem about bunnies. But not quite as fluffy.

I am amidst a world of bunnies
bunnies with names.
bunnies emulating bunnies.
One would say,
"I am digging a rabbit hole
this certain way.
it is a rabbit hole nonetheless,
but it is my rabbit hole.
And in it I will stay."
I would say,
"This is my home.
Come take a look."
They would visit
one at a time
looking but not seeing.
Probably counting the seconds
they alloted themselves for visiting
until they could pass back outside my door
or planning their hole modifications
inside their bunny-heads.
I had been working, too.
But perhaps I had been working on a bunny hole as well
but never knew it.
This could not be.
And I stepped to the furthest wall
to take a look.
To see.
I remembered the bottle
given to me by a bunny with a name.
Well, not given to me,
but cast into the river.
Inside was a message
I am not sure I would have even been able to read bunny-writing.
It never actually returned, anyhow.
And we knew it would not.
So I cast myself into the river.
To find it.