Bootless

Ten years spun into ballooning wear Keep slipping through tighter fingers, Fresh year's tries in futility repair Adamant dents of wasting days. Naive New Year's Eves pop in and go In swift succession of dying dreams, Most astute labors bootless bow; Giving up more rewarding seems. No tiny stone now unturned remains, Yet progress-freezing agues fetid ail; Stinging more than adder's fang ever sunk Into most luck-lacking lamb's sleekest tail. Expressionless Heaven looks on still, As basest ills and brutish hell as one Choke to death firmest hope's last ray; As faith fruitless toils beneath the sun.