Your curatives would rid disease:

across such seas and centuries
what alchemists pursued you with
elixirs of eternal lives
and promises of timeless youth

- until you crumbled into myths
as moonstruck stuff of mania
which quests for the untouchable

not that it lay beyond our reach
but since it will subsist nowhere
except those gold utopias
where perfect things expect to find
acceptance in that scarcest mind
immune from doubts all can be well
yet prone to "the impossible."

Panacea © Copyright 2021, Robert J. Tiess.

View this poem at

Impossible Dream (End of World Diseases) challenge prompt - link:
Submitted: April 7, 2020