Orrin K. Loftin, Explorer: January 2014

Friday, January 31, 2014

Klingon

Klingon

Shall we not sit upon the water as it grows hotter as like oil it boils and as like the fire it grows higher while consuming all who fall? Death comes for me. Death comes for you all. Cowards cower. The brave misbehave in going for all of the blood that can be spilled. Such true warriors will never yield. We are what war is for so let tumble the dead upon the floor.

Let life cease for those who speak of peace. Such pathetic rhetoric can only spew forth from a heretic who uses words as a prosthetic! What we feel is real as upon us has come the time to kill. It is only but a delay to run away. It is only but a delay to kneel down to pray and it is only but a delay to try to get out of the way of the inevitable fate that we so loudly and proudly dictate! We march forward like a curse that cannot be reversed and tragic is the magic for those felled by the spell.

You act as if you are superior because of some select intellect. We do our thinking while drinking while you have to figure out that your boat is sinking. Look at me and you will not be in error when you see the terror! Whether prideful or humble you will mumble to stumble to cry to die and we will be the reason why. We have no use for a truce that you use as a ruse so as to gather the thoughts with which you are fraught. None of you have bravely fought and all of you have been killed that we've caught. There is no forgiving. We just keep on living to expand in this great big universe that we traverse. It is like a flower that we've chosen to devour. We succeed in making its seeds bleed.

We do not apologize for the demise of millions of minions and their lofty opinions on how we can all get along. We've slain the writer of such a sorry song. The notes of honor, glory and victory are what we bang out in an orchestrated fate to be heard with every word even if slurred! Let the drums hum as those we defeat are crushed beneath our feet! Such is the rhythm of war and what we want is more. Death is a frontier that only the brave explore. So shall we not sit upon the water as it grows hotter as like oil it boils as in its steaming there is screaming as in its rising tide there are those who have already died as there are those who will that we are about to kill?

Orrin K. Loftin, Explorer

January 31^st, 2014

Thursday, January 23, 2014

Sails at Sea

It was as though fate had decided when their ships had collided. They bordered each other as if to kill each other's mother. No one would yield as they began to wield the steel. Blood began to spill and so covered in red were the living and the dead while fighting for honor, glory or simply for the zeal of being gory.

With scorn blew the horn for those war torn. There would be no time to morn. Biting was the fighting and under the sheathe were gritted teeth to be gnarled in snarls. It was if a quarrel had been brought on by sorrow brought on by a tide too wicked to ride and so many tried and so many died and so many never got a chance to meet their bride. So is it that death makes a visit as if to stay to play all day.

Cannon fodder from the slaughter lay strewn to be swept away in a typhoon only to be anchored by the thought that they so bravely fought and yet to be wet with regret are those who haven't died yet. The thunder and lightning though frightening can be enlightening in letting you see the yard arm of harm as it swings as it sings to grab to stab at whatever breath you have left if you're still heaving to be breathing. Some stare is if to see their own souls leaving. So is the pitch and the yaw of what the dead eyes saw.

You would think to see the view best from the crow's nest but not when you see your best friend come to an ugly end by being split in two by a crew you never knew. It's too late to ask what for the war when there's so much blood to pour and not enough rum to make you feel numb. The thinking in the drinking is but a boat sinking with no way to dislodge the mirage. So you stare at the glare of the nightmare that daunts you to haunt you. The desert of death is drenched in sin without a drop a gin and so capsized is the hope of ever keeping afloat.

It was as though fate had decided when their ships had collided. Forever they remained tethered together in stormy weather. From bow to stern both of the hulls burned. Shouts and yells fell to the gale. The last of the lamps grew damp to go dark in the night as if to signal an end to the fight. It was stunning to hear the silence running with no way to avoid the noise of the void. Both crew had been destroyed. All there's left to see are the sails at sea with the wind whipping and the blood dripping.

Orrin K. Loftin, Explorer

January 23^rd, 2014