I twice posted this elsewhere, in journals long ago and far away.
The angels gathered me with silver wingtips. Their breath was white as winter, drifting across my collarbone then far away into my heart. It was dark, but their light illuminated me, slanting across my wounds and making shadows of them. The shadows were shaped like dark demons laughing at me ha ha ha, making light of my pain, running to and fro outside the circle of luminaries, trying to penetrate the holy, wanting to defeat it. I bowed backwards, pulling strength from my soul and from the purified breath of angels, and after one long defiant scream the demons ate my silence and were destroyed.
The story was written long ago in a giant book, broken-spined and bound in kidskin. It does not end the way we think.
Once there was a room full of silent gestures. The gestures could not be seen or felt or understood in any way. There was no way out.