Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

I’m static and you skirt to move—you’re quiet and I crave your word.
You silently employ your tantrum riot and I crave your word.

Of hidden weather witnessless, its sigh—it just as surely quakes.
Your smallest voice I miss and can’t deny it and I crave your word.

I saw the heavens box with hell like Wyatt Earp, like movie myths.
A classic silent film—I just can’t buy it and I crave your word.

I met the plane from second seat to fly it through emergencies.
You’re dead; and yet I need instruction, Pilot, and I crave your word!

For criminals I’ve loved, my alibi—it willingly is lied.
Your silent truth: I can’t identify it and I crave your word.

My love?—to hell if love’s cliché—come pry it from my death-clench heart.
Address me—find my red-wet heart and dry it; and I crave your word.

How long can I survive upon a diet bleached of balanced life?
You want to claim my life?—then rectify it – and I crave your word.

My angst you quick dismiss and simplify its wrath as faithlessness.
I wait (How long before you’ll justify it?) and I crave your word.

I fucked it good, fell back, my hand stretched high: it rose like smoky prayer.
I call at you—I trust enough to try it—and I crave your word.

Tens words you spoke at Horeb—now apply it, please, that voice to me.
Descend the mount—your glory’s back: I spy it and I crave your word.