Your Love, As a Metaphor

This little earth of my mine

Never quakes anymore.

I am lumbering

In a dead land

Where the land and sky

Cracks and aches

Parched and stripped

As dry and swollen as a corpses lips.

It seems so long ago

That I was forced to let you go

And wander deadpan

Into these vacant dead lands

Where your touch is as rare

As the song  

Of a bird.