I mow my mysteries

I mow my mysteries
with my bored sickle.

Even my weapons are fed up with
the silly stories that
I made up.

My mask is worn out,
but I'm still rotten inside.

My black nails are broken,
but I still need to prey on.

My cockroach-eyes
are still escaping the light.

Why
the
hell
couldn't I
go gentle into that good night?