Ship of Thesaurus

I am a mélange of emotions crumbled in a bowl of soup,  cold, left forgotten. The maker watches it waste, flavor grown beneath soil a millenia old. Life imitates art; art humiliates life,  portrayed to flatter those who grasp it the least. What do tired eyes see that the well-rested ones never notice? Exhaustion is a cure, happiness is a disease. Is suffering the only way out when calm refuses to keep?

Bind it together, multi-fold. Sweep it under, tether. A string stretched far too thin — covering the distance pulled apart by time. Who came up with — A stitch in time saves nine. Rugged features in rustic rouge, colors of every kind  collecting dust, haggard. Lo and behold, the dots connect like scattered stars across the sky.