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