The Weary Angel

Perched upon a stack of books, the angel does not soar - it rests. Its wings, woven from tangled wire, droop as though heavy with memory, with the burden of countless prayers and silent griefs. The body, fragile and transparent, leans forward in contemplation, neither triumphant nor fallen, but caught in the in-between.

This is not the angel of glory, but of endurance - the guardian who has seen too much, the eternal witness who pauses, weary, in the quiet corners of our lives. Its presence is delicate yet piercing, a reminder that even the divine must bend beneath the weight of existence.

“The Weary Angel” is both solace and sorrow - an echo of divinity seated among the ordinary, where eternity meets the fragility of human time.