Frozen Inn
Upon the shores of the fourth of eight,
Lakes locked in links in a damned river chain,
Lives a wooden edifice upon this straight,
Of mutated water which wades in its own rain.
‘Tis an Inn which watches the wrath of time,
A witness of what does unravel,
Since 1896 its gaze has seen peace and crime,
Unfold from what’s built upon from beneath its breast of gravel.
Dripping sticks of a ticking clock’s cuckoo click,
In winter, stalactite icicles form a frenzy of frozen fever,
Whose seasonal trends descend from gravity’s tricks,
From the rooftops of this haunted home of the nonbeliever.
Copyright © Beej Simrov | Year Posted 2018
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