New Year Day

Icy clouds fell 
On top of a locust tree

To dress it into a tyrant

Over the festive-vacated street.

I strolled to dislodge

Garland from every ornate door.

The floral zilch
Was such a sin  

As to make the New Year day

A faceless broken promise.

I rose to a call

From the bride of Spring

But only found she 

Was in self-contained narratives,

In the grip

Of the coldness of the tyranny.