How to write a poem

It starts with a welling of words on a lash,

A suffering heart of desire and ash,

A body of water, of salt, and of flame—

It starts with a whiteboard embodied by name.

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It filters through lightning and lands on the lips,

A ley line of longing lovesick fingertips,

A tapping, tracing, smudging of lines—

It filters through hues dug up from deep mines.

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It settles unfinished, foreshadowing time,

A beholder of wisdom with towers to climb,

A battling warrior alone on a quest—

It settles when finally given to rest.

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For words are the whiteboard,

Meaning the hue,

And poetry,

Well, my dear,

That is you.