Bittering my poem

 BITTERING THE POEM WITH YOUR SUGAR

Mad are those who feel saved,
for salvation cannot be eternal.

Illusion disturbs the minds of the afflicted,
wounding the feet of those who walk inverted.

The dome of sickness found the cure
and hid it from the rest.

Dressed in a darkened veil,
at the speed of aimless darkness.

Today the mad one is the one who represses,
opening their arms to the wind,
flying like one who never touches the ground.

Saying this and slowly losing,
tasting without commitment
the fleetingness and truth
of every moment lived.

I spit on the soil of your chest,
with wet clay
I cover your lips with a kiss.

And for freeing you from servitude,
now I am the one in danger,
for I tamed the lion
and released the sheep into the pasture
of the dual world,
in the celestial game
seeking what is real.