I turn the page

I shake my head

I hide the plot bunnies

under my bed.

This story’s too bad

for the back of the drawer

so under the bed it goes

Whether some or all

is redeemable…

or recyclable…

nobody knows

My new work in progress

takes all of my time

that old manuscript?


Out of my sight

I am unaware

That something in Denmark is rotten!


The dustbunnies know

something is amiss

Invaders !


A threat!

Their noses twitch

Their tails tweak

Their little paws start to sweat


The pages ruffle

and deep inside

other Leporidae stir

But these little critters

Of dust, they are not

The stuff that makes them

We call plot


Plot bunnies killed

that old manuscript

They multiplied

until they took over

The original story

Was nowhere to be found

The tangents

Grew all too important


At last nose to nose

the first critter of plot

met one made only of dust

Tis love as first sight

and soon

under the bed

A summer of love

Is in bloom


A naive writer

immersed in my work

I am caught unawares

As they breed

In no time time at all

I’m caught in their thrall

It’s too late!

For my very life I plea


I can only hope

that someday they will find

the stories I’ve left all unfinished

My life for theirs

It’s a trade I can make

Perhaps then I won’t feel

quite so diminished


Tis a warning to all

You writers and artists

When you find yourself

in thrall of your work

Cute and fuzzy they are

but if you ignore them

be warned

Tis your death you risk

if bunnies aren’t tamed

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