Red-Headed

On William Blake's birthday I first saw the Christmas lights
Illuminating Market Street with their supernatural sheen,
They made me actually stand & stare at the faery sight
In the twilight of the morning that is in-between

The long dark night of the soul & that little taste of death
Which we conveniently label slumber or sleep.
It was almost as if they took away my breath
With some ethereal nature that could make me weep

As I made my way to the daunting railway station
At about seven o'clock on that cold misty morning.
Of course, I had no auger-like prescient revelation
Or preternatural elemental prophetic warning

That no students would be attending college
Because the generators were all broken
And the blissful pursuit of knowledge
Would now have to be all but forsaken.