by Brian Ji
And still, the land moves forward—
not with collapse, but
erosion
A Slow Decline
Farmers rise, flow tired soil.
Their wives tend hearth and home,
chickens, pull milk from cows,
slop the pigs. Fishermen struggle
against fleets of slowly departing
commercial ships, haul in smaller
catches of ever-smaller fish.
But entangled seals barbed in wire
loosely fit, don’t care, burgeon
swollen into a razor sharp ring
cuts through flippers, neck, and tail,
chokes, slowly amputates does
an ostentatious necklace
flashy, glinting beneath a grayish
overly hot and hazing sun,
an aftermath of plastic, fish hooks,
fossil fuel blackened air, and tons
and tons of rank and raw sewage.
And still, the land moves forward—
not with collapse, but
erosion:
a dimming, a fraying,
a slow decline.
Tripping the Sky Fantastic
Clouds ascend—
Unfurled
like swans,
they hide behind
colors assumed
by sky.
Flying formationed
horizon bound,
clouds dissipate,
morph into fish
yearning to be,
to become,
to forever dwell
within the cloudy
confines of a print
cut from wood.
© Brian Ji
Brian Ji (he/him) is a seventeen year old writer who goes to Seoul International School in South Korea. His works have been published in Lullwater Literary Magazine, SCOPE Magazine, and VOICES Literary Journal. Besides creative writing, Brian loves to play racket sports.
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