Fridays at Icee's.

At the centre of concentration,
the height of attention.
Words don't stream together,
the world melts away the edge of your vision.

You pour yourself into your subject,
and daze out in the process.
Your third person view of the world
leaves you calm, content, and detached.

Music lights the starless night sky,
while mickey dances with a platypus.
The world is your oyster,
You race through colour and space.

Social complications,
political dictation.
They deny what greater forces
bestow upon us.

Sitting here curled up upon carpet,
chit-chatting friends all around us.
Palms all facing an electric heater,
eating food for their sound and colours.

Warm colours made with honey, sunbeam, and apples.
Or a campfire, with a guitar and horse to complete.
We be cruising, we be sailing.
To places before, after, and never-ever.

You are the nomad,
home to this earth.
The shifting sands of this world,
Makes you dance with the rhythm.

Audio visuals report sunsets and mountains
Tasty sounds and music fountains.
Dream while you tread upon this earth,
and embrace the seven-leafed clover.