The Alchemist's Secret

Late at night darkness has consumed the skies,
In a secluded room, concealed from prying eyes.
A frail man, bent with old age, cowers over his work,
In his bubbling flasks, the answer to his life lurks.
Coloured bottles before him,
As he endlessly slaves away, though light be so dim.
The philosophers stone: the answers to his life,
That small thing, the cause of all his strife.
His room, decorated with animal skulls and books piled on his chair,
For several days at the possible formula he would stare.
A lonely old man, ragged and grey,
Hoping his miracle would happen one day.
To be able to create gold,
Concoct the elixir of life and never grow old.
His dinner forgotten , cold and rotten, lay somewhere nearby,
And will remain forgotten, until the day he will die.
He adds to pink solution, eye of newt and foot of wren,
He observes in excitement, only to be disappointed again.
Perhaps a little more blue stuff or a little less green stuff,
Should he use more, or is it enough?
He has been locked in his room, for countless years,
To try and produce this stone, and banish all fears.
To be an immortal, so as powerful as God he can be,
With a draft of his potion, all the worlds secrets he’d have time to see.
So he sat there, night after night, wasting away,
Searching for the answers, so his work would pay.
The frail old man with his formulas and flask's,
Bent ever searching to complete his one task.
He had no idea how close he was to achieving his aim,
No idea his life’s work nearly complete, that moment he came.
But he didn't finish, his heart turned cold and his eyes went dim,
For he had worked his whole life to find the answer, and it was the death of him.
Now no one knew the secret of how life could be defied,
For that great secret, evaporated when that old man died.