Sleepless Whispers returns, not with a whimper, but with a thunderous roar. This relaunch isn’t about maintaining a façade of prettiness or sweetness. Instead, we’re diving headfirst into the abyss that has engulfed dark culture in recent years: war.
War – the ultimate testament to humanity’s capacity for horror. It’s a topic that demands our attention, forcing us to confront the depths of depravity we’re capable of reaching.
Sleepless Whispers is back, and we’re here to whisper the unspeakable truths that keep us all awake at night.
Poem by Vladislav and Katarzyna Dovganyuk-Krym
Music by Suicide Commando
Poem: A descent into war’s abyss
In trenches deep, where whispers die unheard,
soldiers crouch, their souls already interred.
Mud-caked boots and blood-stained hands entwine,
as distant thunder echoes down the line.
The acrid stench of gunpowder and fear
mingles with the rot of comrades near.
Across no man’s land, a wasteland stretches far,
pockmarked earth, scarred by relentless war.
Barbed wire snakes through fields once lush and green,
now a hellscape where death reigns obscene.
Shattered trees reach skyward, blackened, bare,
silent sentinels in poisoned air.
In dreams, they see the faces of the slain,
contorted masks of anguish, frozen pain.
Each night, the same infernal visions play,
as sleep eludes them till the break of day.
Waking nightmares plague their waking hours,
as war’s cruel grip tightens and devours.
The crack of rifles splits the leaden sky,
a staccato rhythm of those soon to die.
Shells shriek overhead, a banshee’s wail,
raining fire and fragments, a metal hail.
Men become meat, torn apart and tossed,
their names and dreams forever lost.
In foxholes dug by trembling, blistered hands,
young boys become old men in foreign lands.
Their eyes grow hollow, spirits wane and fade,
as innocence is butchered by the blade.
They huddle close, these brothers forged in strife,
clinging to the fraying thread of life.
The letters home, once filled with hope and light,
now speak of horrors witnessed day and night.
Ink-stained pages bear the weight of grief,
as loved ones struggle to suspend belief.
Words falter, fail to capture war’s true face,
the soul-deep scars that time cannot erase.
In field hospitals, the air thick with dread,
surgeons toil amidst the nearly dead.
Limbs are severed, futures altered forever,
as fate’s cruel hand decides which ties to sever.
Morphine dulls the pain but not the fear,
as death’s cold whisper echoes in each ear.
The lucky ones return, but changed, undone,
their spirits broken by the things they’ve done.
Phantom limbs ache, invisible wounds bleed,
as memories devour like ravenous weed.
In peaceful streets, they hear the battle’s roar,
forever haunted by the specter of war.
Children play at war with sticks and stones,
unknowing of its true cost in flesh and bones.
Their laughter rings out, jarring and obscene,
to those who’ve walked through Hell and in-between.
Innocence preserved by ignorance’s veil,
while veterans relive their private hell.
In halls of power, old men plot and scheme,
unmindful of the young lives they redeem.
Maps and strategy, a game of chess they play,
while sons and daughters march to their dismay.
Ink-signed orders seal a generation’s fate,
condemning them to suffer, kill, and wait.
The propaganda machine churns day and night,
twisting truth until wrong becomes right.
Patriotic fervor masks the grim reality,
of war’s true nature, its brutal finality.
Flags wave proudly over a nation blind,
to the carnage wrought by all mankind.
In quiet moments, when the guns fall still,
a deathly silence creeps over vale and hill.
The absence of chaos brings no relief,
only space for contemplation of grief.
In this vacuum, thoughts turn inward, stark,
revealing the soul’s descent into dark.
The enemy, once faceless, now takes form,
in dreams where foes and friends alike transform.
They see themselves reflected in the eyes,
of those they’re told to hate and demonize.
The line blurs between victim and aggressor,
as war strips bare each man, each transgressor.
Time loses meaning in this hell on earth,
where every moment feels a painful birth.
Days bleed into nights, weeks into years,
until the concept of ‘before’ disappears.
Existence narrows to a pinpoint focus:
survive this day, this hour, this moment’s locus.
The stench of death becomes familiar, tame,
a constant companion in this grisly game.
Bodies pile high, a monument obscene,
to mankind’s capacity for the unseen.
Vultures circle, nature’s grim cleaning crew,
feasting on the folly of the few.
In villages razed, in cities turned to dust,
civilians bear the brunt of power’s lust.
Homes become tombs, schools transform to graves,
as war’s insatiable hunger raves.
The cries of orphans pierce the smoky haze,
a damning chorus of our darkest days.
Memories of peace fade like morning mist,
as violence becomes the norm, hard to resist.
The line between right and wrong grows thin,
when survival hinges on committing sin.
Morality buckles under crushing weight,
of choices made in war’s dire strait.
In the aftermath, when guns at last fall quiet,
the true cost emerges from war’s dark riot.
Generations scarred, landscapes forever changed,
a world from its foundations rearranged.
The wounds run deep, beyond flesh and bone,
a collective trauma, a silent groan.
And in the end, what purpose did it serve?
This dance of death, this test of will and nerve?
The reasons blur, the causes seem so small,
against the backdrop of war’s gruesome sprawl.
Yet still we march, still we raise the sword,
enslaved by conflict’s seductive, fatal chord.
Timeless haze
Wheels of freedom
