Brackish Channel

Humid, silky waters part
drunken souls from diamond-riddled
nouveau riche matriarchs. Salt marsh
scents drift between similar
southern nostrils. Images
of wealth suddenly synchronize
over swollen opaque skies.

Obvious open panes reflect
60-watt relevance. As a
steady downward mist insulates
a white collared crowd green with
moneyed hues, no proof is given
as to why one party's demise
arises before the next.

The blue-necked world is commonly
vexed with simple, folk problems
soaked in clouded faith. A wretched
wraith will soon descend to fill the
murky void between. Unseen choice
shall make us all believe if not
willingly grieve for penance.