So i got bored tonight, my mind being evil so I took a poem and tried to write it in different styles. In this version I am trying to catch Edger Allen Poe. How did i do?
yes this is my work just did my best to change format.
The Crimson Bloom
In fields of gold, where daylight wanes,
And shadows weave their spectral chains,
A single rose, in crimson dressed,
Upon the soil makes mournful rest.
Its velvet folds—oh, beauty’s guise!—
With painted edges drip their prize,
And each red stream, in sorrow drawn,
Doth stain the earth ere comes the dawn.
Above, the heavens pale do brood,
As clouds in solemn drift intrude.
Their shadows fold, in soft decay,
While whispers coil and fall away.
The rose, in silence, bends toward fate,
Its crimson hues doth consecrate.
Yet still it stands—its beauty bare—
As shadows claim what none may share.
A bell doth toll, its echoes cleave,
Through air that stirs but doth not grieve.
Its melody—both sharp and sweet—
Doth linger faint where worlds must meet.
The flame—a wretched waltz of light—
Doth falter in the breath of night.
Its waxen tears, they carve their path,
A fleeting trace of time’s wan wrath.
The soil beneath—oh, secret keep!—
Doth quake as fissures silent creep.
The rose’s veins with crimson filled,
Pour into depths where roots are stilled.
A balloon ascends, its tether torn,
A fragile relic, cast forlorn.
Its strings divide—how slight, how frail!—
And drift amid the shadows pale.
The petals fall—each tremor’s flight,
A fragile wisp of transient might.
Their folds descend, bereft, alone,
A silken tomb in earth’s unknown.
Yet laughter rings—it fades, it dies,
Its echoes thread through darkened skies.
The rose—it whispers soft, and still,
Its crimson threads bear sorrow’s will.
For soil speaks low—its roots entwined,
A tale of beauty, fate designed.
Where crimson blooms, and shadows stay,
The rose shall keep its truths at bay.
Who am I? 
I would love to hear from you!