I saw her today. Dark brown in complexion, with a striking black gown. It had large holes in them. It made me remember the Yoruba women's lace.
Her hair was golden brown, colored by the gold powder that nature freely added to her make-up kit. Adorned in her queenly attire, she sat on the pavement of her sparkling cubicle, one she'd made a home.
Without much of a care for the stares she evoked, she took out her comb and brushed through her hair, feeling its texture after each delicate swipe. I wondered how she maintained her afro. Baby soft to the observing eye.
She was beautiful for all she cared. Your opinion about her mattered less. With a little mirror that fit into the hollow of her palm, she observed her work of art, and smiled, content at what she'd created.
They say she's mad, and she lives in a gutter. They say she's mad, but I understand.
L. Wayne looks good in broken mirrors.
She looks good in tattered dresses.
We all look good through our fractured lenses.
They say she's mad. Maybe we all are.
- Dr. Fluid.
