Disclaimer: I do not own any rights to Bendy and the Ink Machine. All rights belong to the members of The Meatly Games.

Prompt: write about someone living in luxury.


Vinum et mors
The ink stained poet

An animation ascension that could once astonish and amaze,
Burnt by the blades of blasphemy in a bitter, blood-stained blaze.

Illusions of life and liberty lost in infernos of hatred's horrid hellfire.
Kingdoms cursed by the fuming flames of flaring, filthy desire.

Reigned by an ink-wounded sycophant veiled as an omnipotent God,
Ruling over a realm of whiskey, failure and faithless, frightened fraud.

Slave to the slaughtered silver. Tarnished taste of the chilling crown.
Tuxedo tainted with tears of terror. The devil's grotesque gown.

Throne whittled from weeping woe, engraved with grisly, ghastly gold.
Jagged jewels and damnation's diadems, steel-armoured, dark and cold.

Sceptre smeared with sacrilege, bleeding from the rotting roses in hand.
Coronating the condemned king, monarch of bloody no-man's land.

Sipping champagne with royalty, the arch-fiend praising your name.
Bestowing blessings of beautiful blasphemy, fortune, fate and fame.

Smoking a cigar of slivered sin, wearing a wine-smeared suit and tie.
Silk black as death's flaming eclipse, the finest money can buy.

Suffocating sorrows in a biting brew of vin de pays and bitter tears.
Resentment drowns in burgundy to make the cruel hours disappear.

Black forest gteau and red velvet wine, tonic and repulsive gin.
Thirst for rose-tinted old-fashioneds, cocktails rich as macabre sin.

Desire for death, guts and infection enriching Stygian chocolate cake.
The retched stench of sickly smoke festering an abrasive, angered ache.

Shattering your skull with toxin, getting lost in the drugged, deadened pain.
The cutting claws of tequila crawling through ink-bruised, writhing veins.

Reflections flicker in memories of wasted years and vanquished youth.
Reminiscing on the lies of the loathing lord and the battered, broken truth.

Horrendous hopes of grieving gold and withered, worthless wealth.
The lingering lie of innocence and illusions of thriving health.

Memoirs maddened by malicious machines, discoloured by deathly deals.
Prophecies of enslaved empires engraved in whirring projector reels.

Portraits of the poisoned and pitiful, creatures of corruption's creation.
Sketched from spite and sacrifice, marred by a monstrous mutation.

Wretched whispers of wailing war whirling through an ink-soiled oasis.
Coffins cursed with callous corpses, mockery marring their putrescent faces.

Harmonies embellished with death's darkened dreams, agony's acidic auroras.
Waltz with the wicked in terror's ballroom, adorned with ink-tinted daturas.

Wrists chained to their screeching screams, mangled in their rough, rotting hold.
Befouled blood spews from ink-blemished lungs, their cruel cries callous and cold.

Death's bell knells its twisted tolls, ending mourning's ink-wounded shows.
Silken sand slithers in God's hourglass as the blood-stained curtains close.

Spectres singing spiteful songs as the smoke-spoiled vapour lingers.
Shadows seize the silver stones that sting your blemished fingers.

Shattered souls stain your sinful soul, damned to the heart of heaven's hell.
May the devil have your final dance before you bid farewell.