Style

In the hush of a city’s quiet lane,
Where cobblestones echo a bygone refrain,
A coat of tweed drapes over shoulders bold,
A whisper of silk, a tale of gold.

Style is not merely the cut of a cloth,
But the rhythm of thought, the subtle oath
That each step taken, each glance exchanged,
Speaks of character, not merely arranged.

It is the poise of a gentleman’s nod,
The ladylike tilt of a parasol, shod
In muted tones that the fog loves to kiss,
A dance of restraint, a muted bliss.

From the crack of dawn’s pallid, amber gleam
To the midnight oil where dreamers dream,
Style weaves through the fabric of day,
A quiet signature, forever in play.

So let us wear it not as a show,
But as the inner light that softly will glow,
For true style endures, beyond fleeting fashion—
A steadfast grace, a timeless passion.