Jump rope hope

Sweating beneath the drapes of waltzing
they are drawn across my ephemeral mind
I reach for the outline of shadows behind
but not being real, I struggle in futility
as the sketches are mere cataracts
of bloodshot sight, my senility
looms large without facts

lamenting my familiar failure
I charge with refuge for the shelter
of Wonder, seeking it's skill of burning
with smoke, red glows and change.
As my ally it will hurt me
more than any other.

What if angels, were once creatures from a different plane of reality, who were created and went through history not unlike us and subsequently came to give up their wills to God in love of Him?

Often, at moments of sudden uncertainty, as things fall away, I loose sight of what I have. In the follow seconds I hastely reform my character and rebuild my wall of security, shaken by how fast things fell. Am I really that vulnerable to outside criticism? I should really look into strengthening those barriers. Maybe I'll hire a couple of diplomats to hear things for me in comfortable light, then I'll be both protected and receptive of incoming opinions.