(Just fixed a typo)
Some poems are not poems, but are stories at their heart. And here is one such tale, but where's a place to start? In a cabin? In a canyon? On a mountain painted blue? Well I guess the place don't matter, if you really know it's true!
A girl was young and merry--or a boy, it works both ways--and she played and danced and tarried, through the light and sun-filled day.
"Where's my man (where's my girl)?" The girl (the boy) would cry. "Oh what ever shall I do, if the star-eyed can't be mine?"
She followed and she fled (he swooned and tipped his head), a-leaning and a-chasing toward the men (to girls) well-bred. The raven-hair, the jeweled eye, the curvy soft-kiss mouth. The groping hands, the well-shaped form--they just couldn't go without.
The girl, she got her guy (and the guy, he got his girl) and happy ever after looked just perfect up the hill. 'Til the well-shaped and the lovely, left girl's (boy's) broken heart. "Perhaps we did it wrongly? Perhaps we failed some part."
But the truth about this lesson, is what they so wrongly learned. To give a heart--to sell soul--will often leave you burned.
To quickly give, to swiftly fly, as beauty catches the eye, is to quickly fall, to swiftly drown, and surely fatally die. Beware the traps, avoid those tricks, of paint and pristine lies; for the love of today is a futile display, and the heart that falls is the heart that dies.