You flattered me with words so warm,

But your heart is an empty vessel,

That with pretty words you dress and adorn.

I was blind to this I must admit.

For your sweet syllables stroked my vanity.

I once rejoiced in all the praises,

That you so warmly bestowed upon me.

I lived anxiously for every word,

That dripped like honey,

From your cunning lips.

I longed for your vowels

And begged your consonants.

I even hung on every participle

 that you would dangle.

Oh can’t you see,

How addicted I was,

Hearing about me?

But alas

I now know,

You never were enthralled with me.

You were speaking,

Just to be heard.

And all that you said,

Were just empty and hollow words.

So, go now and speak no more.

For the sound of your voice to me,

Has become that of a thesaurus’s whore.

 J. Allen Wilson © 2003