There is a silly old fool, he writes poems.
His themes are various, his output, vast.
Half of his effort is junk- he is
an artist after all- but even the good word 
is diligently ignored. All of it
sinks to a dark seabed
nibbled there by species unknown.
The silence really is deafening.
If anyone finds the power of speech
the only question will be
"What is this shit?"
The silly old fool does have an answer
but, against the clock in a single sentence,
he fails to convince. Perhaps 
that will remain impossible anyway.
Hence the poetry.