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BUNNY RABBITS ‘DON’T
CRY’
Blood soaked white
fur,
pressed into the
cage;
a twitching, pink
nose
conceals overwhelming
rage.
Number
642
in a laboratory of
lies.
They want us for our tear
ducts,
our docile, pink
eyes.
Restrained in the
stocks,
so that I cannot
move.
All for these
tests,
but what do they
prove?
Caustic
chemicals,
drizzled into our
eyes;
they watched
transfixed,
enthralled as we
fried.
A torturous
existence,
filled only with
dread:
this is the
life
for which I was
bred.
My collective
unconscious,
shows me carrots and
leaves.
They stole this from us
-
they are the
thieves.
I also glimpse
meadows,
where bunnies run
free;
utopian
pastures,
I will never
see.
Perhaps in the
night,
in the still and the
calm,
we can
escape
and return to the
farm.
A place where the
victims’
wounds can be
nursed;
and with time, come to
terms
with the heartache and
hurts.
It will only be
then,
that our fear can
abate,
as they tell the
press,
“It was all a
mistake.”
Fried bunny
rabbits,
dead on the
floor:
a sight even a
vivisector
would have to
abhor.
’Till then we're
condemned,
to a lifetime of
pain.
For them our anguish
equals
profits and
gain.
On supermarket
shelves,
the shampoos that you
buy,
deceptively
boasting
“baby, don’t cry.”
I long for the
warren,
tempting me from the
sky,
I’ll be released from the
torment
on the day that I
die.
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