I found an old notebook with writing in it that I believe is the last things I wrote before my accident on 4/29/2010. This might be the last sonnet I wrote before the accident:

My feet, repulsed by darkness and the fruit
which rots between the rows of orchard arms
alone, organic sentinels, the root
of evil growing silently. Alarms
of touch, repulsion marks the solemn path
between the rows of withered lives. I walk
in silence, like the culminating wrath
of stagnant, rotting life, protruding stalk
which stigmatizes flesh, my feet are bare
I feel the piercing call of dreadful night
where dreams of darkness permeate the air
and danger bleeds my skin a ghostly white
I flail and moan in spasmic steps. The coup
of life is death, which life can not renew.

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