Holy moly this sonnet sucks

There was a time when I would see the sun
and stare, as though it were an adversary,
but soon, my eyes burnt out. No longer one
with anything I see, I try to carry
on; I don’t know if I can know right from
wrong without my sight. It can be scary,
that feeling. My ears do thrum
now, in absentia of my sight, my staring
done with angled head, ear-back-pressed thumb.
Some tones sound good, some bad, so maybe I
can use that as moral compass: will it be
as true as eyeballing the truth? How can I know?
Was I moral before, or just a guy
who thought he knew the best that he could see
was just the best? These questions will not go.