Black Curly-Fries

Here is my descriptive essay!:

I arrived late. The entertainment had already begun. Standing behind an elated crowd, I viewed his body begin transportation. Left to right, sky driven then at risk of being dropped; hands grasped his limbs as he was passed through and above the crowd. Shouts blared through the microphone in his hand. In this single moment the connection to this group was more important than his performance. Or maybe the connection was a part of the performance. Soaked from the sweltering heat of the night, he dripped. His hair, which was of likeness with black curly-fries, reflected the rose colored lightning that was shining from the stage. The cotton of his shirt had been dyed the color of a street cleaner’s vest, his khaki slacks rolled up beneath his knees. He was dark, his skin the color of a muddy stream, like that of the Indians. There was not a lady in sight… that would break the hindrances of this culture. These men devotedly loved their chosen leader. When he sang, or in their sight even spoke, his voice was that of an angel. Not resembled, but was. The beat of the snare was hypnotizing, and I was prompted to ponder what would become of these men.