The Headless Prophet sagged beside me looking sullen.
It wasn't cold that night but what a day it had been.
So even so, that not-cold air felt sharp and chilly,
And neither He nor Me would stray far from the fire.
The headless one's companion was bleak and ironic.
I don't know why but he stood on his head all night long
And he was fighting to maintain a half-straight tunic
He stayed inverted for so long he started bleeding,
Until a tear came from the woman sitting near me.
Old Headless said no words but like I said, He couldn't.
He didn't blink an eye because yes, He was headless.
The tension was so great I felt my own reaction
Was nothing other than a point of sword to burst it.
And I'd have cut it but I knew I didn't need to.
Old Invert never came around despite the cool breeze,
And even though I'm sure I waited near forever.
When that blood came in the woman's tear I realized
That night, we talked about this man for centuries, so
When all the others heard of him, they knew already.
The only thing that I can think would take this farther,
Would make this more ridiculous than where we've got to,
If we would hear the cock crow thrice within our earshot.
But I knew that it would not be a night like this one.
Whatever we still thought, it wasn't that late, not yet.
I looked at my bereft of head companion's body,
I looked at my inverted friend whose eyes had closed now,
So clearly, it was far too late and we all knew it.
And so we saw the only thing left for the doing
Was just the work of yesterday, which didn't thrill us.
