Russian bourgeoisie.

My insides squirm; I'm nervous
My infinite muse and downfall,
once more,
asks me to dance
I spin and flit, unaware
I dive deep without a care
and as my sarcophagus cracks,
I ache to be back
in it, I can't win,
it calls for a requiem of sense

Jaws snap
shut
your eyes,
you shouldn't see this

Come on, bishop,
make it hurt.

"I used to want you dead, now I just want you gone"

Light-headed, fuzzy, hazy;
turning on any distraction.
Emotionless I try to remain
and you're not helping -
oxygen seems too heavy.

Dim the sunshine and bring on cold nights,
put on your gloves, prepare for the fights.