Vogue

Vogue

In the bruised‑green glow of a London twilight,
the nearest catwalk unfurls beneath the City’s gable,
its lights a choir of silver—slick and startling—
calling all who dare to taste the season’s breath.

Vogue does not merely catalogue; it breathes,
its pages fluttering like loose‑leafed leaflets of colour,
each photo a quiet manifesto for the restless heart.
The ink spills in wilder strokes, audacious and bold,
a mirror for those of seventh‑great‑grandchildren,
for whisper‑sellers sighing “I can’t keep up.”

And yet the runway is a chameleon’s shawl,
shifting swagger from polished leather to dust‑speckled silk,
for the moment is a fleeting flare at the back of a crowd.
Even the most lucky, every earnest thread,
is worn as a last‑minute hat of chaff—
exchanging shapes so quick that it feels like trickery.

On a Sunday at Harrods, on the Strand,
the old‑world aristocracy sifts through sweaters of stranger hues,
while the drones of youth shine beneath a sign that says
V O G U E, reminding every half‑hour that fashion is a game:
you lose less if you have daring, at least, and then you win.

Still, the word “vogue” can be a traitorous friend:
until its next parasite, on a page turned,
a memory is confined to a spot where you stood—
the only speculation: is it ever truly yours, or just the riff?
It bleeds through you like a colour soaked in rain.

So I stand in the middle of a city that never pauses,
walk the squares of great hope and fashion obsessed,
and I turn my head to a billboard that boasts,
in bold, block letters, that “colourless is the ultimate vision.”
So I carry it: a choice, that quietly pulls at the heel,
for what we fashion here is nothing without the weight of a page and the pulse of a dream.

Vogue, you are a breeze that stretches all the way out
to the Thames, a force that turns stares into memories—
You soup them in a glass of something deep,
and in your likeness we find what we dare not name: That, dear reader, we all dress a little better.