Dressed to the nine for the ball on 145th Street
Runway down without turning back
Gold trophies glistened at the end of tunnel
Comments and catcalls fiercely mixed and maxed
Honey, time to strike a pose
When you bent over, hard to tell if you were a pimp or whore
mother or son/executive or secretary/president or soldier
REALNESS—Blending in with your straight counterparts, you erased all the flaws, mistakes, giveaways to make your illusion perfect.
In those overextending and overbearing hours of vogue
You created a Legendary, a status in the ball, a household name for yourself
Ruffled feathers and flowing chiffons could only reveal—
The queen of the night had her grace on the house
O-P-U-L-E-N-C-E
You own everything
Everything is yours.
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