The language of poetry has left me

When the river of poetry has dried Like parched clouds waiting for warmth When the rain beats down on emptiness The god of rain demands to be penned I pour myself a glass of wet wine An offering to Bacchus to entreat My muse, but she ain’t listening Her torrent of words fall on deaf ears I light two cigarettes as an offering My sooty lungs are a poor sacrifice Still my muse refuses to talk sense The god of ash will not spill beans Poetry has dried, but I am faithful I’ll cup my hand in the pouring rain I’ll bind dissonant words like cold fusion Marry consonants and vowels online Anything to rise above the mundane I offer sooty words to show I’m here Do poets online get drenched like me Stumbling in the rain posting virtually? My eucharist is dipped in whine now Comments become sacramental breads Poetry is a vice best felt in the rain Washed clean by constant wringing So I’ve made a poem out of rain Turned water to prose like Jesus I’m on Golgotha with Him every day Extolling in the driving storm Both of us bleeding or crying Eli eli lama sabachthani? God, my gods why have you You abandoned me? You must know it's just a cross It's me counting rain drops When the parched clouds part Let the sunshine be though hard