stab at a sonnet

what music chases down the halls
will flee from art or truth in pain
while water trickles down the walls
and leaves a darkly fæcal stain

the blood that's drawn from my right arm
is magicked into meaning by machines
which analyze with eyes that are not warm
and hearts as clean and wholesome as latrines

those who come here know that they must die
but will not in their minds admit the fact
although they know denial is a lie
and only makes their deeds into an act

still living in this time i dare despise
the ones who falsely claim that they are wise