Vermillion trims inked thunder clouds
Borne on the wings of an indigo whirlwind
Suspended under a curved, knowing moon
Ill omen stretches across the vast fierce sky
Fear tinged gales roar through the brush
Impinging upon my dearest held dignity
Drawing closer to the precipice of despair

The gnosis of heaven’s blue flash illuminates
Telepathic indications of your desires
You who remain unknowable, unseen
Why should your beauty hide its face?
Inscribing symbols upon my flesh
Entwining visions of ecstatic sensations

Scaling granite heights, insurmountable distances
Imparting visions of star-crossed grandeur
Moonlight guides my path of passion towards you
Water rains ablutions in this gothic dream
Purity calms storms in the long-protracted war
Its alchemical dimensions denaturing

I’m an echo in the caverns, stealthily passing
Fading murmurs trace interstices
Within this cauldron of mountains
As through this horrific, tempestuous hour
Revivifying whispers of me reach you

Original Passage from The Rosicrucian by Percy Bysshe Shelley:

Red thunder-clouds, borne on the wings of the midnight whirlwind,
floated, at fits, athwart the crimson-coloured orbit of the moon; the
rising fierceness of the blast sighed through the stunted shrubs,
which, bending before its violence, inclined towards the rocks whereon
they grew: over the blackened expanse of heaven, at intervals, was
spread the blue lightning’s flash; it played upon the granite heights,
and, with momentary brilliancy, disclosed the terrific scenery of the
Alps, whose gigantic and misshapen summits, reddened by the transitory
moon-beam, were crossed by black fleeting fragments of the tempest-
clouds. The rain, in big drops, began to descend, and the thunder-
peals, with louder and more deafening crash, to shake the zenith, till
the long-protracted war, echoing from cavern to cavern, died, in
indistinct murmurs, amidst the far-extended chain of mountains. In
this scene, then, at this horrible and tempestuous hour…

Formatted Passage (where prose ‘becomes’ poetry):

Red thunder-clouds, borne on the wings
of the midnight whirlwind,
floated, at fits,
athwart the crimson-coloured orbit of the moon;

the rising fierceness of the blast
sighed through the stunted shrubs,
which, bending before its violence,
inclined towards the rocks
whereon they grew:
over the blackened expanse of heaven,
at intervals, was spread the blue lightning’s flash;

it played upon the granite heights,
and, with momentary brilliancy,
disclosed the terrific scenery of the Alps,
whose gigantic and misshapen summits,
reddened by the transitory moon-beam,
were crossed by black fleeting fragments
of the tempest-clouds.

The rain, in big drops, began to descend,
and the thunder-peals,
with louder and more deafening crash,
to shake the zenith,
till the long-protracted war,
echoing from cavern to cavern,
died, in indistinct murmurs,
amidst the far-extended chain of mountains.

In this scene, then,
at this horrible and tempestuous hour…

This is in response to the Meeting the Bar challenge: Prose to Poetry by Zsa at dVerse Poets Pub: http://dversepoets.com/2011/11/10/meeting-the-bar-critique-and-craft-prose-to-poetry/.
Please join us!

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