*
Ghosts converge with ads
for meeting lonely women
like souls belong on a grid
*
but worse things start society
or so I’m told by phantoms
caught inside a diagram
*
hard leaves eventually lay flat
before we see the texture
hidden in their veins,
or slowly burn with
granulated flames
*
we swipe left
the sun turns red.
___
© Ben Ditmars 2017
The Midnight Writer 