He remembers the fountain,
Pouring out onto the page, seemingly inspired.
Feels like it barely graced his fingers, withdrawing as he grasped for more.
Dark hallways, caked in dust,
Sitting in former glory, the alchemist thinks.
Dreaming of turning nothing into gold, but his words ring hollow.
Like running before walking, he expects
More than he deserves.
A rhythm of disappointment and overreaching emerges,
Hoping definition rears it’s head.
Still the fountain sits empty,
Its silence the response he’s been looking for.
Are the days of effortless glory truly gone?
Dejected he starts anew.