Under the guise that there could be a group,
A saying,
A path or a system,
Or lack thereof,
Or the most holy of disciplines,
Or of the tyrannical free verse,
O of the makings of man,
O of the make believes of man,
Constantly flowing and winding,
The river we all flow through,
Some paddle,
Some lay on their backs and careen,
Heads tucked away below,
Under the guise,
Deprived of identity,
Yet given one by the mass hysteria,
The glowing moths under the streetlamp,
That cascade with the wind,
That dance to the holy rhythm,
O that holy rhythm,
O that holy dance,
O that wondrous make believes,
How easily the rock is swayed,
Submerged in the water.