Banquet & Ashes

You know the table exists. You've seen the light spill under the door.

Banquet & Ashes doesn't argue with you. It doesn't console you either. It takes you through the feast — the mirrored ballrooms, the hollow laughter, the wine that never empties for some and never arrives for others — and it names what you already suspected: the table was never meant for you, and the people at it can't stop eating even when they've had enough.

This is poetry with a spine. It moves in the tradition of Dante's descent, of prophetic fury, of the sermon that doesn't comfort — structured as a journey from gilded gates to cleansing ember, with historical wreckage in the footnotes and whispered heresies in the margins.

It will not make you feel better. It might make you feel less alone.

The fire does not ask who built the table — but you should.