Their figures stiffened but not aching
Her fingers poised, as though gracing a hollowed egg
At great length, unyielding their preciously mastered positions
Like snowflakes in the bell jar of an icy tundra

Tickled pink by the fine point brush of her creator
She spins, embracing your gaze
    Yet she is paralyzed
Her grace and strength bleed through the same wounds which rest, unhealed on the block of cedar which her weight dutifully suppresses as she suspends herself amidst the voluptuous starlit glittering illuminations

Their beating, breathing counterparts whose swiftness grants nostalgia to a world where clocks no longer resemble Dali's
    But instead are made of gold
With hands spinning faster than you can see

Her feet daintily hault the gears of this robotic stimulus,
She becomes the mesmerization
  Calling the onlooker like an herbivorous siren to a safe and warm pool of ablution

I hit play, Deng's's music was on repeat
The deep sultry voice sent soft echoes
Bouncing off everything into the street
Kemah smiled and laced her ballet shoes.

Kemah moved like a seductress in heat
Undulated her hips, moved to her feet
And she began to slow dance to the beat
Spinning like a flamingo on the street .

Deng nodded as she started to swing
There's really no dancer like Kemah
Her backside, rhythm, her everything
This was beyond contemporary Zomba .

I too wanted to rock to Deng's beat
Snapping my fingers, swaying at will
I just smiled and remained in my seat
But my old bones refused to sit still .

With Deng's latest hit song on repeat ,
Kemah's body swayed from place to place
Her entire soul intoned to his aesthetic beat
She was a temptress ,a girl with real grace .

Over where I sat in utter amazement
I felt humid looking at her silhouette
Suddenly I knew what Deng's song meant
For Kemah danced my soul beyond ballet .

Under the glow of the golden African sun
Her moves were flawless and unique
She danced like a young Doe on the run
Kemah was a star ,she was ballerina d'Afrique .