The Dumb Supper of Lord Amergyn

In the realm of the dead
one needn’t press their robes.
Wrinkles do not exist.
Chores do not burden him now.
I see in his spectral eyes that he does not miss them.
I know what a burden such details were
to his child-like soul
so that as full of love as he was
his usual contact with loved ones
was instead full of conflict and arguing.
These things were barriers
which kept many from tasting the beauty
of the world as he saw it.
As he taught me to see it.
He sits in the chair, which does not feel his weight.
From his realm I see much laughter, much dancing
and much joy, as the other spirits who’ve passed away
meow much as we used to, hoping he’ll play
the song about cats having sex.
How we once laughed at that song.
How I laugh now, at this dumb supper
and how I can see him now
realizing what I’m laughing at
and he mouths meeee-owwww to me
for that is all ghostly lips can do.
He cannot eat the meal in front of him.
He misses the flavors of such treats.
I miss the flavor of his voice.
I am the hungrier of the two.