Like Fungus

Spores, light in the wind
  float down as thoughts from preaching streets
Soft beds of literary devices
  lay my head on scratched-out lines while
Delete key always
  calls to me, siren song of perfect backtracking
The words edge out,
  sneaking into the world despite my itchy
Pinky finger.
Take root, and then:
Vascular tendrils, flowing ferns
  launch new words in percussive volleys
Unmanned drone assault on senses;
  senseless resting place for untongued splendors
Create cloth green with
  woven spirals, unfurling outlands,
Connected mind to forest floor,
  the roots a map, the result only
Part of what is written.