The ancient art of conversation lays frost-covered, almost dead

No one's listening anymore to what the other person said

Defiantly devaluing the nuances of syllables heard

Randomly clipping, unquestionably, necessary words

 

Discussions typically hurried—no mutual listening.

Group communication resembles children's Chinese whispering

How frequently have you heard someone with spirited intent 

Say that, “I'm sure that's what he said,'' even ''I'm sure that's what she meant''

 

There will ultimately come a day when your words will be confused 

For the want of understanding, desperate pleas will be refused

Though concise statements conceptualised clearly within your head,

There's no time for reiteration when you lay dying in your bed.

 

Desperate to comprehend the meaning of what others may say,

Crucially, giving your polite attention is the only way.

Should people show no regard whilst listening to your spoken voice,

With respect cold-shoulder their ignorance, give them a Hobson's Choice