MOOD

A Huge Plume of Ash Rose From a Volcano

Flying Between the Clusters of Trees Without Buoyoant, Floating Wing Beats

He Was Beginning to Despair of Ever Knowing

Like Sleepwalkers Ghosting Through a Dreamscape

Lions in the Supermarket Don't Sound Like Humans

Misty Fog Covering the Side Window

That Appeal Has Been Put Into Suspense by Reason

He or She Will Then Drill Into the Pulp to Reach the Root Canal