Room 718 and the art of dying quietly

I woke this morning in a hotel.. as I very often do.. and staring at the carpet of the hallway, this came to me so I spent breakfast writing it. would love feedback on the first rough draft.

The carpet grins,
blue and yellow veins
rotting under fluorescent light.

Industrial lemon burns the air—
someone else’s failure, freshly wiped.

Behind each door,
something softens.

A man unknots his tie like it remembers his neck,
children sob through plaster,
lovers grind guilt into rented sheets
that will forget them by morning.

This place archives surrender.

The lift sign points right,
but the corridor doesn’t end.