They sang songs in a Bard’s Poem.
Painting words in posh paint brushes.
On rough pages-
In black on grey.
Uttering rough adieus in coarse voices.
Yet those strokes were as soft as feather;
Blown on the lightest wind-
That blew heavy from the north.
Cold winds indeed !
On a crispy, raw draught.
Brume caught in between moist imprints.
But for those posh paint brushes,
On rough pages-
They sang songs
And danced on muffled beats.
– Tanistha
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ReginaViciPoetry 
Good use of colour and feel. Rich piece