Whistle

I am, yet...here I am,

a curse couldn't have been told
so elaborately so,

feels like I left its lips
and burned everything along with it,

alone, yet here I am,

magic, misspent,
a flame of never quitting,
inside a body whose entire work

always left awkward and unfinished,

chasing order and uniformity, beauty,
but not for me, but always for me,
a paradox of everlasting, fleeting,
ambivalence,

ameliorating pretentiousness,
with simplicity,
by being simple,
and simply,
finished.