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.