The Doors 'Alta Cienega, Rm,# 32, Doors are Closed!'

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In the heart of West Hollywood's lore,
A motel stood, a sacred door.
Room 32, a shrine in time,
Where Morrison dwelled, his spirit's climb.


Alta Cienega, a living page,
Whispered tales from a bygone age.
From '68 to '70, a melody played,
In the Workshop of Doors, where dreams were laid.


Halloween's eve in twenty-nineteen,
I stepped into history, a moment keen.
The Alta Cienega, silent, still,
A pilgrim's journey, a poet's quill.


Closed now, awaiting fate's embrace,
The motel echoes a timeless grace.
Elektra Studios, a heartbeat near,
Where Jim's voice lingered, crystal clear.


The legends speak of Airbaja's quest,
Chasing echoes, on a spirit's bequest.
Through the corridors of memory,
Seeking Morrison's legacy.


But hark, the winds of change blow strong,
As the Alta Cienega's fate moves along.
A monument lost to rock and roll,
Yet the tales endure, a sacred scroll.


In West Hollywood, where legends dance,
Morrison's essence, a cosmic trance.
A poem etched in the city's veins,
Where history and myth remain.


The Alta Cienega, now in repose,
A chapter ends, but the story grows.
Jim Morrison's spirit, free and wild,
In every note of The Doors, beguiled.