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.