731

Whispered truths, stitched in the seams of the void,

Files locked, but the screams still deployed,

Shadows on the walls, they slither and coil,

Unit 731, doctors drowning in oil.

Scalpel edge, scalpel mind, they dissect the soul,

Cries ricochet in chambers blacker than coal.

Blueprints of torment, stitched tight in the thread,

Experiments conducted on the barely not-dead.

Eyes blindfolded, but the vision stays sharp,

Echoes of the past still claw at the heart.

Black lodge path, where the light don’t tread,

Whistleblown whispers for the silent dead.

Black lodge path, truth cut through the haze,

Haunted by the screams of forgotten days.

Blueprints soaked in blood, signatures in red,

Victims’ names erased, replaced by the dread.

Doctors of death, white coats stained with ash,

Surgical precision, humanity’s trash.

Torture chambers colder than a winter’s howl,

Where humanity's hope was devoured by the foul.

Secrets buried deep, but the soil leaks the stench,

Of souls once pure, now chained to the trench.