Mock Epic: The Edict Of The Hemline Gods Poem by ashok jadhav

Sing, O Runway, marble road of fleeting law,
Of Fashion, high enthroned in glossy skies,
Who rules by trend, not reason, sense, or need,
And bends the mortal wardrobe to her will.
Once, in an age now shamed by memory,
Men dressed for warmth, for work, for modest ease.
But lo! From towers of mirrored glass there spoke
An oracle in heels and borrowed light:
"This season, waistlines rise; the colors fade;
What fit yesterday is now a crime."
The faithful heard and trembled in their closets.
They cast out jeans once loved, now heresy.
They burned the sweaters worn in honest joy,
And bowed before the altar of "New In."
Old coats wept softly, hung and half-forgot,
Their service years erased by sudden shame.
The Hemline rose like holy revelation;
The Shoulder broadened—sign of chosen taste.
Shoes shrank to pain, yet pain was called "divine, "
For beauty, preached the priests, must always hurt.
Those limping were declared most blessed of all,
Their suffering proof of perfect faith.
Dissenters walked in last year's mortal cloth
And faced the stares—cold spears of silent scorn.
"Outdated, " whispered lips, as though a curse.
Their exile swift from temples of the chic.
Yet Fashion turned, as always, without shame.
The hem fell low; the colors screamed once more.
What saints had worn were now abominations.
The faithful sighed—and bought again, devout.
So ends this epic law of cloth and thread:
What gods decree today, they damn tomorrow.