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The angel slept.

Not from defeat—

but from the deep exhaustion of feeling too much.

And in the quiet hours,

wings folded like prayer,

a new stillness was born.

Now, morning comes.

The angel rises,

rested, sharpened by dreams,

lighter in sorrow,

stronger in grace.

No longer bothered by buzzing flies,

no longer distracted by the flicker of passing shadows.

Nothing false can hold her gaze.

What once was soft

has settled into stone—

not as armor,

but as architecture.

With each solid piece of feeling,

a wall is built—

not to shut the world out,

but to hold something sacred within.

Above the noise,

the angel flies—

ready to notice,

ready to protect,

ready to love in silence.