Guesthouse

I can see my pulse on the walls,

Beating seams of plaster shell,

Niles lock aside, rustic hotel,

My name spelled out, my fate befalls.

Indeed, to peer at me,

We look straight inwardly,

Projected out behind blank stares,

Spiraling up where no one dares.

Rustic, dim dusted chandelier,

Paint chipped, ornate yet queer,

Bricks sag with railing rusting

Ghost guesthouse, once a bustling.