Majesty is not the tall spires,

Looming towers, and sparkling palaces

Of blinding white stone

Built upon foundations

Made of the backs of broken men.

It is not the lofty citadels of worldly

Grandeur, ambition, and pride,

Sullied as they are by moans and groans,

The tax of poorer men.

Their walls glisten with hubris and greed,

Soaked with bitterness from within.

A poor imitation of true majesty.

One need not travel far

To bask in the face of majesty

Unsullied by human grief.

The aged oak clutched round by lichen and moss.

A seat at the edge of a cliff

Where you gaze down into the lashing sea.

Watch in awe as huge waves

Batter ceaselessly the cliffs,

Sure that one day they will swallow all

By way of their relentless task.

Stand where mountains push forth from the earth

Reaching, reaching for something we cannot see.

Snow and mist cling to their peaks,

Verdant forests vainly scale their colossal heights.

Bereft of mankind,

One is left to ponder alone

The insignificance of petty woes and cares.

Before these giants of the ages,

Your eyes are drawn heavenward

To contemplate the majesty that awaits there.

                                                                  
MIRIAM MOCKETT is a sophomore pursuing a degree in fine arts. An Alaskan Resident of ten years, Miriam is the second of four sisters. In her free time (of which there is little) Miriam enjoys writing on the various novels she has in the works.