Unwanted Paintbrush Poem by Stephen Omolori

Flipping through the pages
Of the books written by mortal sages,
There's something I don't understand,
Like the birthmark on my left hand:
What really is the purpose of my living,
Breathing, when mortality leaves me grieving?
I try not to blur happiness in my head
When tragic memories visit me in my bed;
But Death throws more pains at my canvas,
Making me doubtful and nervous,
Asking if the canvas of my existence
Is torn by the potence
Of his unwanted paintbrush.
I've realized that Death's brush makes lush
The canvas of immortality,
Especially when you flee from immorality.