Dead Motel

Back in its heyday,
the vinyl gleamed,
the chrome and gilt shone,
and the rugs were plush without remorse.
The women were sucked into girdles,
the men slick and crisp in suits.

It was restrictive and flawed
but contained in a way that you felt
a sense of abandon and freedom
when the lights were low.

Now, there is mold in the shag,
cracks in the chrome, and the beds
are long abandoned.
There are fetid tide pools
where sunbathers used to languish.
The dining hall is full of ghosts.

Some are afraid of the ruins
while some of us cling to them,
feeling the ache of being lost in time,
stained and broken, forgotten.

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