Dissolve

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?

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