Down pathways of disordered winding,
through darkened halls of never finding,
seeking nothing, always talking,
the obscurantist goes a walking.
Dilettante-ish, pant’s seat flying.
Flaunting candor, ever vying.
Crying foul while sneak attacking,
the obscurantist’s creed lies lacking.
Inconsistent, always changing.
Toppling blocks, then rearranging.
Fencing foes with mock befriending,
the obscurantist knows no ending.
In mazes of excessive turning,
the wise man leans upon his learning-
His ear turned deaf to flips and flouncing.
His eye upon the ball that’s bouncing.
metamorphhh (aka jim crawford)
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-obscurantist/
