A Story

In titian blue aura of the night
burning chrysanthemum on both ends

I reflect on—
A story with no name
Narrative born with no name
A character that grows on you with no name
Nobody peeves for a name
No one provides a name

Becoming—
Neither a tale with a purr of sublimity
Nor a fable culminating in a name

A chronicle arising from a reticent plot
And ending in licks of anonymity

Cut from lattice of thought

I be—
A filament with no name