A Sweep of Fungus

in the mind are unmet meadows,
forgotten forests,
and shaded faces;
in the mind are forbidden places,
forlorn tourists,
and fits of prose.
there are things in the mind that it must not know;
the sweeps of black fungus
peeking out from the wrinkles,
some shelven,
some dangling in clusters,
some highlighter-gleaming,
and some all alone;
all sorts of strange caps and
stranger stalks,
warning signs and
deadly skirts;
and all can kill.