Psycha-Splatter Cityscape

 

Smeared Floral Pattern

 

The Ghost City

 

The Clouded City

 

Sunrise in the City

 

Starry Skyline

 

An Art Called, "What's Left Behind"

We all leave a different version of ourselves behind. And I don't just mean after big events or only on a grand scale. I mean with each step, with each blink. Sometimes bad parts of us finally lose their grip and fall away. For those losses, we can be grateful. Sometimes, good parts of us fall to the same fate. Those, of course, are missed dearly and we yearn for their presence once again.

What's Left Behind by Derrick G. Wood

Soft Shapes

 

Cycling Mind

 

The Square of Circles

 

Panel

 

The Diner

 

A Spiky Circle

 

Eyeing One Another

 

A Poem Called The Grey, Grey Beach

 The Grey, Grey Beach >>> Nov 6th, 2015.

There’s a place where I meet you, 

A place I am not sure can exist.

I go there slightly post-slumber,

Under skies of muted myst.

A grey beach stretching to infinity

The pale waves are static, soundless.

Birds overhead, slightly slow motion

Though their flightpath seems quite boundless

Only a thin line of light

separates the sky from the sea

Like a barely open eye,

the horizon squints at me.

You appear as a distant dot

The only real color in this land,

Flowing so softly, as if submerged

but advancing on the sand

We're pulled to one another

Like black holes in the twilight

Anticipation sedates me further

then everything goes white

I wrap my arms around you

but you are only chilled air,

Then down upon me, a soft breeze,

I imagine it is your hair.

A kiss like a whispering statue

standing in a vacant sanctuary,

Down to the ground, moans fill up

this once barren estuary

Hands I see no hint of

warm my unclad flesh throughout,

Coming together near this sea

Leaving no fear of drought.

Collapsing supine and panting

Slowly fading from all the grey,

Eyes re-opening slowly

Finding loneliness on the bay.

Grey fades,

Darkness rises, 

Body falls,

Body lands…

Back in bed, tangled in sheets

The sound of the city grates my ears,

The cars, 

    the sirens, 

        the screaming, 

                the barking,

The source of all my fears.

Reaching for my glass of water

but my cold hand slips on by,

Looking back at the night, I wonder,

were you the ghost... or was I?