Regan-Rose—Majestic

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Majestic. The sick of snow, untainted and soft, sinking deep. She is majestic. The feeling only an autumn Thursday night can give, the feeling of white-gold joy, anxious jitters. Majestic. I see golden streaks fleeting in air, floating as if fae. Fluttering, spinning with grace. I see glowing clear water, trickling down harsh rocks of moss, in a scene of trees. At the centre of it all, clearing the hazy sky the water flow creates, is a soft spoken creature humming her favorite melody. Majestic. The sounds that bless my eardrums as I find myself drawn in. My stomach starts to swirl, fighting for the fleeting joy I’ve only once felt. I see her face so clear now that I’m so close. My knees feel tired as I go down. Majestic. A word reserved for only the most beautiful and elegant, and I am all at once, absorbed in it. I couldn’t tell who she was, what she was, or why she was there, but I knew for a fact I was destined to be there. She spoke as y she could speak the native tongue of the sun. I knew what I had to do.