Of Infant Kings and Fragile Men

A story of a man walking through a desert of Spain to see a king's son, only to realize in the infanta's greed that the journey was more him escaping his past and venturing into the unknown.

He was the knife and the bottle 

was there in the dark, waiting for a penultimate strike.

And then a last. It would pierce the skin and open a hole for the fawn. 

Haven’t been here in this desert sun for days for nothing.

Knowing that nobody was as lone as I.

And it didn’t set for me, no but it remained bright in my eyes even in night.

My fingers didn’t seem to mind.

I didn’t feel the last of the drops of winter.

I took the first steps some months ago and didn’t look back.

It wouldn’t go out; the fire you used to set yourself alight.

And baby was one with the bottle, sitting in that darkness.

It’s alright. He doesn’t seem to mind.

My feet don’t seem to mind.

Oasis. Didn’t see that coming, oasis. 

I fell in. I fell into the blackness 

and didn’t look back, just as when I set off.

Suddenly the night came and a light.

A final glimpse of baby and all the emptiness of the bottle.

Oh, the bottle.

He was the knife and I couldn’t cross the threshold into life.

So there again, I turned back not and kept my trek towards darkness.

No sight could tear me from my direction.

My direction wouldn’t set myself alight. 

Maybe, perhaps the sudden sunlight’s death could’ve been a sign.

I took it as nothing and stomped on past, stomped on past the Infanta. 

Who set himself alight.

Author's Note

This was actually supposed to be a lyric, but I can't sing for shit, so here's hoping it'll work as poetry. I gave it a clear story as a narrative, but interpret it how you must.