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.
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