The Mist Tree
Copyright © 2016 Darren G. Drake.
All Right Reserved.
Shakespir Edition: License Notes
Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favourite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.
First published in paperback 2016 Lulu Publishing Inc.
Copyright © 2016 by Darren G. Drake.
All Rights Reserved.
Lulu Paperback ISBN 978-1-326-56632-6
Otherwise refer to Shakespir Edition: License Notes defined above.
Cover design and artwork by Darren G. Drake.
Backcover photography and design by Darren G. Drake.
“We’re trying to break the language barrier. I’m not interested in semantics.”
- Patti Smith interview, 1970s.
A Simbul for Colour in Earth
She understood implicitly, the delicate unfolding of Soul in a human world.
A white world, barefoot in the snow on Christmas Eve in a distant country. Told to put shoes on or freeze, he did neither. Wine warmed hearts and skins.
Invented in Colour, you and I take turns to remember the Ceremony, sparring on the slippery snow balcony. Untrained skill arises between us.
My new friends are masters outside Time and need no accolades. Recognise their patient spiritual shield with no motif emblazoned. Seven tepees & aluna symbols on a painting above the fire.
Mystical powers are here: do you see? Flowers in eternal bloom: you and I and the sun and moon. Living crystals. Dirt & Treasure.
Close your cornflower eyes: change channels. The Simbul is in You, in us All. More than human, more than animal, element, science, art, concept, mark, moment. Beyond emotion, mind and reaction.
The Simbul’s colour is Feeling.
Seek the Simbul, the Ancient Sages hidden among us. Unnoticed more than secreted. Hiding in Plain Sight. Earth’s custodians.
Maybe… you are one?
Patti and Robert
She was sainted by He. He was solved by She.
Living together, finding each other again and again in carnival seashops, trinket stands, girlhood tokens, boyhood necklaces, intimate drawings, collections again and again in the Big Apple.
Savouring each other. Wildling kids, running amok in the almost linear streets. Time has no handle on these Two.
Poor but never poorly, broke but never broken, their Art was the Lost Vowel, the Black Timbre, White Noise. A careful photograph of horses, music for the blank wall they designed. One hundred discs they could dance to overnight.
The silent song between them is Unconditional Friendship – a rope trick, like no other rope or trick before them. A calling, a need for their presence. They summoned themselves.
“Did they get us?” asked Robert.
“I don’t know…” answered Patti.
The Forgotten Vowel
A – a song.
E – a bird.
I – a tomorrow.
O – a window.
U – the river.
Tuaoi – a Crystal overtoning the Third Ear.
Irish heartbeat spinning drums up for this kid’s wild adventure. Grounding a new earth revealed as an always rolling textural.
Pre-sane Elements, eyes gone in. Beyond it, before it. Uncolored understanding.
Nowhere Land, Never Never Man. She comes to save only those open figures, standing plainly like the sun in winter.
You have got to be kidding. This Sudden Empire can never be defeated. It doesn’t Exist because it keeps Moving. Heard and not Seen. Herd before a Scene. Herd instinct. Coils upon coils, unfolding around biology.
The Far Land has its dead dreams deluged this morning. All Made Clean. Potion ocean dream seed sold on black markets to ordinary people.
Here comes the Good Wolf, famished brethren following close.
Oisin flies between worlds, a prince of the air. Water flows, earth builds & fluctuates, fire hardens and cracks: explodes. Dust whirring. Anthropological language failing. A thousand voices resurfacing from farmlands across the years.
Her surrender into quietude awoke him. A forest portal opened, the Merlin stepped through. Sun in the treetops, chill fog at ground level, the Five began walking, the path winding ahead.
Deep breathing exalted them. Cleansing the city labyrinths out of their bodies, their mind’s unravelling decades of video games and polluted drinking waters. Solutions appeared.
Lost Souls Found
Having and Being – a coin of Existence.
Oh it is obvious. The fire is lit, the hearth swept, invitations sent.
A bird trusting the wind to take the invitation where it is called. Blue, Purple and Gold dance, duck and weave.
A Tall Boy strides gracefully along the road, dogs travelling the wake, towards the Factory belching black smog. He elongates. The doors burst open, slaves spill out, running, running, disappearing into the empty streets. The production line is unmanned, dehumanized, inert. A lone individual shivers holding the doorspace, afraid of unseen Masters, afraid of himself, who he has degraded into, the black pool, the brown lumpy wall. The loner, the foreman, frozen on the precipice of a wall, caged, forged a million years ago. Irresolute, woebegone.
A Tall Boy arrives and stands still a hundred yards away, watching. Distance is no object. Time is completed. This door of illusion is closing.
The trace program is sent! Tracking the ghouls down the tunnels of The Mind. Burning out one by one, then hundreds, thousands, millions at a Time of Great Upheaval. Emotions burn clean.
Symmetrical Fractal codes rewriting the Matrix of Control on planet Earth. Gaia arises, surfaces clean, nude, beautiful, serene, tender, wild, dignified. Custodians of Light emerge standing around her at every vector.
Warrior-Sages walking through the morphing mists of Time and Place. DNA codes undulating to the dance of entheogens along the Mobius strips of awakening souls who accept their human life as it is.
DNA resets, re-formatted. Ancient, oceanic memories emerge in new sequences. Circles spin, worlds unfold, rivers run. Ele-mets form and reform.
It’s all been said Before.
Overwatching the film, Lucy, daydreaming emerges…
One plus one is Two: that’s all we’ve learned. But there has never been any numbers. We have codified our existence down to a level that we can understand, because we also know that life is unfathomable.
Cells form, reform. Makes no difference, it’s all the same. The human scale is humanocentric, metamorphosing. The animal scale is animal, and animorphic. Humans and animals are Earthlings, friends of Gaia. Sharing life on Earth.
Life is in a state of permanent change. The Changeless is Forever Changing. This is a good thing.
A four-year old told me she wants to be a schoolgirl: “So I can do my numbers.”
Listening on NightLoop to London Grammar…
You can hope for a life that is calm, but come in time you are going to pick up one of the fields. Breathe in… breathe out.
How does it feel to breathe through your heart? Breathe in… breathe out.
It flickers in my head. The image of Light recalled, calling home. Breathe in… breathe out.
Crossing oceans of time for you. Patience beyond, coming from beyond. Being Beyond. Breathe in… breathe out.
Treasure this gold. The cloth we wear can be exchanged anytime, anywhere along this vector. Breathe in… breathe out.
If you wait. I will trust in time that we will meet again. Breathe in… breathe out.
From the air to the root, a bed that I own. Breathe out… breathe in.
Deeper and deeper. More and more relaxed. The deepest dimension we know is Light. Breathe in… breathe out.
A story from the sixteen year old boy, upstairs in the school library, imagination streaming at the Teacher’s urging.
In came the distant figure riding a horse across the lake on a narrow road. Impossibly, the horse’s hooves clipped the surface in rapid splashing staccato, yet the reef below was Possible. The rider flowed black with purple crenelated edges.
The rider paused to regard me, roiling cloak slowly captured by the reef’s hidden path. The dark gaze undefined.
I wouldn’t worry, you have all your life. I’ve heard it takes some time to get it right.
A thousand times I watch the rider leave. A thousand times I don’t understand why.
Don’t know what you are. Don’t leave me hanging on.
Don’t need to know. Yet you stay.
Keep it together. Winter lights, winter owls, winter hawk.
A silent disco in a narrow walkway after dark in the city. Headphones on all of them. Girls really dancing. I mean enjoying it with friends, faces blissed. Boys walking the lengths, just feeling the energy of dance. Telling each other what they hear.
Kids pouring paint on an obelisk in the centre of a black curtained room. Brilliant rainbow of Time, enbricked. Deindividuation nation embroiled in endless contrafiction. Get out. Stand clear, luggage doors operate.
Cover of Time magazine faking the Artist of the Year, with hit pieces on citizens in revolt. Silly clowns, these reporters. Hundreds of thousands gathered in cities, for hours all over the world, going unreported. Talking heads saying nothing. Have no fear, no anger.
All is explained.
The black business women doused in white plaster, gaping tears After the Collapse. Foremen running up Towers to the rescue. Patriotism codified by logo. Every collapse recycled by news networks, the never-ending horror movie right there on my Screen. No logo. Culture jammers.
Capturing the revolution takes Time. The revolution will not be televised, unless logos are present. No logo. No capture footage. We won’t argue. Organized disaster. Corporate Media Disaster P:rn.
The flower silently twirled in a Buddhist hand.
The Hobbit homes off the grid.
Oh ho ho! The crippled palsy girl, grinding her legs through dirt to the centre of the horse enclosure. Throu the dirt to the centre. She reaches out and the horse nestles her. Achieving her goal, she dies nine months later. She found happiness.
Jesus, the Ultimate Rebel. Can you imagine if he had remained silent, living as a simple carpenter, no miracles ever seen, but certainly still happening? If you wait, I will trust in time that we will meet again.
Shiva is here now. And his many friends. Shiva is Jesus: Jesus is Shiva: two souls as One. Same energy, thousands of years apart in Time. Living outside Time. Horse sense working miracles.
The horses are on the track.
A Synaesthesia’s Symphony
Cross cultural philosophy of the Sense. Breathe in… breathe out. Colours merge, disentangle from laws, consolidate ancient moral codes. Wall murals done for patrons of the arts.
Taste the sun. Hear your bones growing. Fluids are music we can understand, appreciate. I am the purple depths of the sea. I can feel. I can see centaurs, changelings, shapeshifters riding caravans into the bazaars of Constantinople, Kathmandu, Da, Alexandria, Visoka, Melbourne. I can smell the medicine of your orange peel senses. What if truth is a Woman? So very strange the ravages of empires, seeking to enslave the soul.
Kids pouring paint on the red carpet. Mosaic religions prosaic. Colours do not line up. Blowing bubbles after hours in the celebration streets of your town. Lighting fireworks in the sands of your backyard with your Father.
Screen shot the past. Play Spanish guitar as a present. Future unfolding as needed.
Are you composed?
Land, a dirty war. A battle neverwon, neverending. A little more Light installed by way of humble honour.
In the corner of a distant field a grave is marked, “A Soldier”.
Here lies a psychic surgeon.
Here lies the dust of one who broke free, a Field Marshall.
Here lies a leader who broke from the past, a Simple Man who Spoke Volumes.
Here rests a Teacher who wanted to be a dog living with a happy family in his next life.
Here demarks a frontier crossed by Unknown Soldiers.
City of a Trillion Doors
The astonishing child, the poet Homer never met. Embarked on a courageous journey, leaving few clues. Every poet makes sense, except this one. No country could hold him.
This might tree cascading flowers in eternal bloom. Sigil and sign – marks upon the door, upon this page, trailing across this screen. Did you come for instruction or inclusion? Amusement?
Rain never dissuaded him from travel. Slow and furious candle, fast and steady windhorse.
The family without media, phones, television, news, distanced from negative indulgences. Gives birth to children who all follow their own Spiritual Path.
The child painter grants attention to one painting for four hundred hours. Each meditation in sequence, unfolding multidimensional hyperspaces.
You, the Miracle
You and I are friends if you want it. Do you see?
I won’t pretend to be a mirror if you won’t.
I don’t care if you don’t.
I don’t mind if you don’t.
I won’t leave if you won’t.
Curious to escape the fictions of an insular world, I walked the path of snails at night after rain. Realised that snails risk their lives to slide across the wet surface of concrete, taking advantage by moving faster from grass to grass.
They move at speed when it rains. Just to feel the slide. The Beautiful Emptiness, so regal, the naïve risk.
Heroic little creatures, carrying a spiralling home on their back. Once the home is brittle and rigid, having used up all the Earth around them, they discard the shell for other worlds.
Do you see the miracle? Being and becoming, we are always in the right place.
There is a real lake in a real land today that you may find if you like. Sacred to the bone. The Ancients gather there for concourse and healing. Counsel fires on the shores and in the druid forests. Women lead the way there and back.
They feed you. They nurture your dreams and creativity. They want you to succeed. To be natural and essential.
The Ancient Celts know.
After reason, before the end, is a place where you and I might spend. Spend? Yes, a gift, an exchange of privileges that everyone has stored. Sharing is the real mystery, the magic. It’s really not that hard to do.
Requires your trust. Open, fragile, vulnerable, soft, flowing, endlessly renewed, immovable, interchangeable, ungovernable, unforeseeable, unencumbered, illimitable, loveable.
Requiring a compass given freely, exchanged for experiences.
Sounds like Yes.
Oddly under the sea, the Nautilus is not drunk enough. On the surface going across ways upon ways, the Drunken Craft grows.
On the contrary, the Nautilus shields its occupants from ever growing, and science here is stifling glass and expectation.
Evolution comes with trust and an open boat.
The Nautilus is a mausoleum of floating collectibles. Ahab and Nemo are driven mad by wanting to Have Everything. The whale swallows them both, like a scientific theory.
The open boat is just Being.
In the Deep, new worlds come to those who sit in trust beyond belief.
Superman or Merlin: who do you want?
I want to be me.
The Feminine Spirit drifts into being, unannounced. She is nuanced blue-gold integrity. A fresh femininity.
She is a river of fire and a river of water. She is a genuine smile to welcome you when you wake in the morning. She is quietude.
She is a kissing riot. She loves you, yes she does.
Putting my Atlas bone back into alignment cured a whole host of health issues in me. I walked for six hours straight around a mountain lake the next day. Then I walked an Irish country town for hours to visit a millennia old natural springs. All kinds of Yes in the motion of the human body, unfolding from restriction.
Agreeing with gravity, even as it does not exist beyond 17D. Agreeing that the human body is a vehicle to the stars and inner worlds. Yes. Getting our head on straight. Yes. All seasons begin with you. Yes.
One world we melt into One. Wrist and hands are vibrating, releasing old grips and gripes, old habits that do not serve Lightness of Being. Yes. Easy. Epigenetics, yes. Changed structural relationships and new movement possibilities.
Draw your strength from who you are.
Yes. A Light Little Being in Planet Earth’s family. Down to earth. Real.
Do you want the Japanese dramaturges to explain No? Or Nietzsche? Or more questions, endless questions about Existence.
“Pinning the Soulflower to the Karmic wheel” is a good line from a John Lennon song. Imagine the Karmic wheel like another Matrix, a Sphere of Control, a dodgy school where the Headmasters are men drunk with power.
Just stop doing what you feel you must not do. Karma will fade. Right action will prevail naturally. There will be no thought. Only feeling. It will be enough.
It’s our karma to learn to escape. Unpin yourself. Peel yourself away, slowly but ever-so surely. Walk placidly through the waste to the open door of the prison. A door that was always open.
Imagine precisely escaping the Matrix by being wide, humble, open, genuine and brave. And letting go, trusting we can redeem ourselves with Good Feelings. Stay a little longer and be aMazed.
Carve an original soul of your own.
That is my No.
Running along a sandy beach as the storming rain comes in, laughing. Wet to the knees, a phoenix on our back. A rainbow left behind us, a Moments archway between worlds, stepping through black to white to aqueous green to frothing grey. A painting and a grandfather comes to mind from different coasts and legends of overseas travel. Riding a dolphin friend through the waves. The sky is mine, my hands are yours, my body heaves heavy breaths, then lets go refilled with light. Let the sun in again. “The sun is god,” as a painter once said before he left, as if he took his life-Time of life-lines, to remember. How prescient of him.
Hot planets birthing Children of Light. Go with it.
The Time Lord began to realise that, “I am Time”. In this awakening he understood that Time was controlling him, he was not controlling Time. He was lost to Time. So he searched beyond Time.
Beyond the Matrix are worlds unfolding in unimaginable beauty. Trillions of universes, more than any one human can think.
Beyond the Mind, are worlds unfolding in unimaginable beauty. Trillions of universes. A trillion Trillions… Sextillions…
He sought She for clarity, paucity, purity.
Drinking was not enough. Thinking was not worth it. Life is good. Nomads roam the Earth writing nothing down or up. The Drunken Boat cut its way through the drift out at sea through waves that would sunder the cargo of dark gods. Light broke through the white on black enchanting the waters, engaging a single eye from the shore. The eye waited, drank deep, waited, watched. Ventry, the town he rode into at midday was silent, stormy, calming. Pub was open. Not a soul in sight along the Christmas streets, on the shore. Him alone amid the wild panoramic base-bliss colours. Hints of pink, wintercold red, green, blue, sand and kite. Boats rocking ropes in the wind, waiting, unused, unentered.
Drink it all in. Remember who we are. Prophets have said Our Great Orb circles Arcturus. Imagine that: an Infinite Sun orbiting Invisible Centres. Wild.
Another Guinness for me mate here, please. Over by the window we’re sitting. Join us. Shout my friend a drink: let her share a word or two with you.
These hands measure the distance, the density of skin kept in. Over there we are champions of mildness. Pure water distillers make us well enough to handle a week’s worth of earth.
Life is simple: either we will or, we won’t. Do or do not. Easy. No line on the horizon is simply to see. It’s not there. Just like time. Not there.
Horizons measure planets, astrological patterns that effect humans. Animals worship Gaia. Dimensions unfold, just like spirits unravel from bodies.
There is no horizon like The Present.
I am a Jedi running through the game, lightsaber in hand, ready. Swish, swash.
I am still that Jedi running through the same game. The borderlands are pixels on a screen in my mind. Count the pixels, one two three four five. How many worlds? Many not so real, some real.
I seek the Shadow of Revan, a myth in the gaming world. A gray Jedi.
After 3 months Revan is found, barely a moment’s sense worth the entry fee. Another Darth gone to seed obsessed with Infinite Empire… So be it, a false path witnessed. Turn away.
Silence at the Inbetween.
3.47pm Saturday on Ash Road heading north, having bought a tomato from the local market. That is all it takes to enter – briefly.
Let’s do it again. Kids know what’s good for them. They just keep going. Nothing can really stop them.
She was right to ask the President about the Drones landing in her sovereign country, her town. No answer forthcoming.
Her young name birthed in an ancient world of Justice, emblazoned on the wall of a school in another country. Next to a map of the world upside down. Galactic plane re-centred, refigured, rezoned. No borders.
The Matrix has you. Get out. Get out now!
Corporate Media Disaster Porn
The title is enough. Whitewashing the dawn and day and night with its self-interested produce. Demonic. Mind Control & Emotional Pollution. Over and over, end over end. Sad, laughable, mesmeric, ignoble. Time destroyed endlessly. Gone, gone, gone…
Let the Fat Controllers be whatever they want to be. Forget them. They will eat themselves.
Remember the Light. Return to that which Nourishes us. We deserve better.
Pinball, anyone? Remember the pinball machines at the Fish and Chip Shop three decades back? The big kids would risk tilting them seeking the prize. Another game of pinball.
Crystal fortitude. Open heart magic. Soul in the wind, a shirt beating free, undulating. Deep Yellow armbands, Dark Purple Robe. A classical arcanist. Now the cymatics:
Remember Eire & Amergin: learning to speak: Singing glossolalia to shape their feelings about what Home is like:
The world is mad. We are light.
The world is neither mad, nor not mad.
Light. Light. Light. Light. Light. Two suns high in the east. Flip flop, losing the moon. Everything skin. Not very least.
Magic is not Fact. Magic is Always.
Magic is. Fact is not.
Magic plays. Fact warns.
Magic Warms. Facts can harden Cold.
Being Time. Having Time.
Being well. Having wellness.
Being love. Having love.
Being kind. Having kind.
Sound your voice with celestial inner sentiments.
Sign of things arriving.
The best dreams happen when…
Within the fire and out on the shore, people make space to bring their wares. Do you have need? Barter begins:
The magazine Hyper opened him to a video game called Beyond Eyes. A blind child’s play. Feeling white at the periphery when happy. Feeling black at the borders when afraid. The market buzzes with delight, a library of concerns and endlessly screened options.
Food is medicine. Simple healing nexus. A basket and a green bag to carry fruits of the earth in. This is going nowhere. Stop. There is no Supermarket that can carry all your needs. It’s another illusion. Are you certain you need it All?
And so it begins, Achilles. Are you in this time? Paris is a city now, and you are Psyche’s weakness. You still in?
Go! We have faith in you.
The scrumptious feeling of spiritual food in the air when opening the car door. Architectures of Light, molecules and atoms misting the room between tables, vitalised people eating minimally. Plants have invested their cells for human energy fields. Animals feast among the human forms, happily entertaining friends with new conversations. There is symbiosis here. All is well. Transforming, digesting very slowly.
Forest Portal, Wandering Sun
We fold in to become physical. We unfold to journey wide into dimensions beyond It All. Extravagant way of expressing how we agree to Chains, then we break our Chains to Evolve. Interesting evolutionary experience at the root of trees. In to the Heart Wood. So we drive to a forest track, lock the car, get out and begin. Very dark at midday, the trees are so tall. Yet there is a slaking thirst above us – the Sun breaking above our heads, way up. Wherever we walk, we can feel the sun light guiding us on. We connect to Sun with our hearts, Light to Light. Going up the mountain feels amazing, fresh scents, green everywhere and everyway.
Forty year old songs have codes written inbetween the twang of string… to help us remember. Metal and wood resonating the Oneness. Remember, remember. Play what’s not there.
I have not forgotten you, though you be this world’s forgotten boy.
You are Light.
The women are amazingly Light here, gravity is a joke given endless definition.
Be among us. Open your doors, your travails, your grit. Express what you have. Be who you are. Begin now.
Encounter with the Author
I haven’t read all your book yet, because I am still reading you.
I wanted a word in the moment, a fresh energy passing between us. Anything.
“So you’re coming back to the new library soon?”
“Yes. I wanted to be the first to speak in it. But I couldn’t have my way. Oh well. I like the architecture.”
“It is an architectural…. Freak.”
“I think it’s lovely and good as well.”
“Thankyou” taking the signed book. He bows deeply before her, turns and hurriedly leaves, embarrassed.
He learns how One Word unlocks a Torrent of Farewells from childhood and books.
Sense and Sentience. Port and Portal. Being and Having. The forces of Nature unleashed. Occult forces, intense dreams, and dangerous times. Perilous situations in cyclic transformation during mysterious forces of the night. Strengthened by the intoxicated demonic mind. Nature smashes on through, wind on the sail, the masts of empire set on fire. Nobody owns anything. Light the bonfires, free your mind. Metamorphose from beauty to beast and vice versa. Do it. Kundalini yourself within. Sing something sacred. No body owns you.
Dog’s Yard Hidden in a Forest
I am Nowhere. I like it here.
No illusion can keep us apart, unless we agree to remain enamoured with it. Blind, arrogant, the Marid conjures grief, never feeling love, unremembered. Sad really, when all that is needed is a single effort.
The old Uruguayan president said it best, “We are never defeated, unless we want to be.” Yet, stopping is an artform few seem to understand. It is not a defeat: it is a sideways travelling effort, to go beyond burden.
Conjure love. It’s easy and lasts as long as we concentrate clearly.
Time is an illusion, conjured by the mind, for the mind. Use your illusion, yet know the opening to a multiverse. Accept incomprehension as normal and indefatigueable. Why resist infinity?
Gentlest hands now guide us deeper into You. Easing into rest through the sweetest smile, the knowing heart, an empty flowing cup of golden grace.
You’ve been here in other times. Welcome! Return and enjoy the warmth. Leave it where you find it, a purple flower in a deep blue river.
The blessing way helps me heal with star charms shimmering as I sleep. Destination flow over to happiness kissing everytime it feels good completely refreshing.
I give up what I have to say so completely that I am filled with Voice.
Love, a simple life. A fire, a home. A place to be.
It was a good day.
She knew the lion and the witch needed the wardrobe to summon friends to their cause. She would not be drawn into conflict. Refused, point blank. She would not waste her energy.
Instead, finger painting an ice shelf on an ocean. Colours spread out. A world of one’s own. Of all colours, impossible connections realised, like glee and concrete walls.
Youth like a deep and easy sigh. A dance of kung fu in black chalk and green scattered lines made by a girl who knows the world is never full.
It was a good day.
The Birds shattered the air, drinking fresh water, singing white and pink tones amid the structured gray sub-tangents. Old stacked bricks broken by color. Balancing human equations.
Youth has the most beautiful smile.
In this room is a nameless view of the ocean.
The sunsets of Youth are infinitely beautiful.
Give full urge to your peace. Swing your arms and float and wonder. Curious yourself under everything. Every. Thing.
Wet Leaves, Magical Edge
Lost One, Immortal One, hear us now. Restless One, everything said to her is a beautiful risk, well worth the time spent recording thoughts of Her Valour and Your Enchantment.
The One Whom Holds Life Prisoner is wounded. Wounded One, beware. Do not linger in shadow. Return to Light. Again and again. A Greater Mystery unfolds another layer every time you do so.
Get in the car and go. Where?
Get on your feet. Go.
Find Your Light.
“Numbers” – has a number of short quotes from the 2014 film Lucy, written and directed by Luc Besson. Theme of spiritual evolution is explored.
“Breathe” – has a number of short lyrical quotes from the first London Grammar’s 2013 album of music If You Wait. Used to push themes throughout the text into other poems.
nb: Short quotes appear from both of the above sources, very briefly, in other aspects of this book. The reader may notice a line here and there, merged into the overall work, cinematic and musical doorways into expanded consciousness…
Photo by Elrowien
Darren Drake would like the quality of his work to be the credentials that he can be understood by. The poems alone are the qualification – without degrees, certificates, opinions & devices attached. He currently lives where he was born on this planet, making good time to explore the Way of the Warrior Sage, and to travel to places he has not visited before.
Born in Geelong, Australia at a hospital that no longer exists.
Interested in spiritual evolution, natural health, music and multidimensionality.
Other Books by Darren Drake
Visit my Shakespir author page online at:
Short free verse poems exploring a theme of consciousness unravelling from the Matrix of Control. The Mist Tree is one of many deep dimensional perceptions of what a spiritual logos can be like. It is an ever-changing form of a Free Being. The act of reading poetry takes you deeper into a world of codes, symbols, dreams, and promptings about your own unfolding consciousness. An amusing mystery that does not pretend to solve who we are.