What I Thought; What I Was

Bringing back the old style of writing

Indeed a crooked faith goes beyond an array
Heed only caveats through and through
And those decadent of the veritable, pray
If the times of yore grasped my subtle grave too
Implore me not, what is done is done
Yet flout my sodden eyes
For they wail drops of a forebearing son
Despite this aged demise
Declare the candor upon enemies akin
Shout the forbidden name for all to judge
If those wish not to speak a sin
Hold no eternal abhorrence grudge
What I thought; what I was, is not how i am
Conceive a notion so pure of deceit
Will i foresee a captivating whim?
And never hold a naive defeat