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On the outskirts of the city
a young woman walked
gazing at art and viewing it lovingly.

Inside her bright red backpack
that carried the contents of her life
was a painting. 

The painting was years old
and at one point 
had been her favorite to gaze upon
and in fact,
she loved it so much 
she had hooked it
to the inside of her backpack
and it was now part of her backpack.

But time had warn the painting
and two other paintings 
had bled onto the one she carried now,
as they slipped from her pack,
one when she was not looking
and the other floated down a river
away from her
leaving her grief stricken. 

The paintings made her less lonely,
as if the only purpose she had 
was the paintings themselves. 

While she looked for the blue painting 
she had lost down the river
she followed the current to a place
where she thought she might find it
and in the search 
she spotted another painting.

The painting looked wild,
not mild,
untamed,
and enchanting
and she made friends with the painting
and the painting made friends with her
as she gazes upon it for hours.
It's golden hues flashed in the light
as she held it tight 
but the wind came
and knocked it from her grasp,
into the water and there 
it floated down the stream.

Day after day
she wasted away
searching for the painting
and she found
quite to her amazement,
the painting had stopped on the shore
once more. 

Her eyes traced the painting's edges 
and she held it tight once again,
this time deciding that the painting
was missing something 
so she took out her brush 
and in a rush
painted in acrylics
some strokes of her own.
And she loved the painting.

She wanted to make it her own
but a fishermen came
and had said it was his alone
and he had created the painting.

She begged the painting
to follow her but the painting did not
until with one final thought,
the fisherman said 
she could have it for the day
and as the fisherman walked away
sirens blared through the air
here and there and everywhere
announcing the presence of a tornado
and she, like a criminal,
attached the painting to her backpack intending to steal it for more than a day
and as she made her way
across town
and the sun went down
she could see the tornado drawing near.

She thought she could outrun it
but she was mistaken
and rather shaken 
when the tornado came upon her 
and tossed her to and fro 
like a ragdoll with nowhere to go 
and in the process the tornado
ripped the painting from her pack
leaving the original one behind
but in the process her backpack
was torn and mangled,
as if slightly strangled 
from her attaching the painting to it
for the chord attached
had ripped a hole in the material
and to her horror she found
that the painting had been carried away
by the tornado
to a place where she could not find it
and the contents of her pack
now were missing
and she was wishing 
that the painting would return.

She still had the old painting
which she held solemnly 
and it was still attached 
but  the golden painting had bled
onto the colors of the older painting
leaving it tinted 
and not quite as pretty as before. 

So distressed was she 
that when she got back home
she tossed her pack to the side
and carefully unhooked 
the other painting,
carrying it with her in stride
and she set it down on her bed
and she promised it she'd 
never let it get hurt again 
as she mended the colors 
to look beautiful like before
but she still went back searching
from shore to shore 
looking for the golden painting
that would not return.
It was there she learned ,
as her tears flowed down her cheeks,
that she was probably nothing 
to the golden painting
and even though she had lost 
almost everything 
because of the painting
the painting had seemingly lost nothing.

So with brush in hand
she walked on,
trying to stand
and retreated home 
where she planned to sew 
the backpack that was ruined
and she became isolated
from the world
hoping one day the painting 
would show up on her doorstep
and naivity became her 
as she found herself 
at the bottom of a bottle. 

Friends, do not look 
at the golden painting
if you should fall upon it
for it is good 
but it takes its soul with it
and you will be no more.
Your heart will war
and you will become sore
from the heartache and pain
that surround it.

It is better to leave early
and never return
than to learn
the affects of the golden painting 
and have your backpack torn apart.
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