An Involuntary Shudder

VII. An involuntary shudder as I watch her Spread Softening butter over a sliced scone; Much exaggerated flourishing whilst Wielding the ornately designed, silver-plated Table knife. On observing, I am firmly convinced even Stern Hades, Slinking somewhere deep in the Abomination's of his fearful afterlife, Admidst the terror sunken beneath all of, What was, once, vibrant Cyclades, Would, on viewing, blanch with more than Just a modicum of alarmed apprehension; Even more so than his inner, dread Thoughts of which are not well known:- The failed abduction of an unloving and Reluctant wife... But then rash Theseus always did have A keen eye for the young ladies. Maybe the truth really is you never did Have much of a chance after all? Cursed, right off, from the very start. The self-perpetuating lie, in all its Appealing vulnerability, insidiously Fashioned into what most wrongly envisage; They used to say it wore down the heels Under ten million sandals. Oh! how I detest all of what pertains in The unseen flaws of your idolatrous image:- That which reduced all the civilized world To naught but a chaotic shambles! And...at the onset of this monumental Furore:- One dissatisfied spirit who would Dispassionately chart, Complete with scowl, sneer and wry Grimace, A path for destruction to follow on. For, did you not always openly rejoice in All the details of outrageous scandals? Taking the door, reemerging into the Bustling street; I note how poignant it is that the Cherry blossoms have all but blown. These fragile little petals, lying idly Scattered over warming pavements, Prompting comparisons with those long ago Flowering Almonds; Recalling the flaring of nostrils assailed By a bitter fragrance That pervaded throughout wide avenues... Drenched the cool, sheltering gardens; Sacred blossoms, crushed and stuck to The underside of our calloused feet. But, ahhh, now it would seem we have Both outgrown, What, once - was the whole world! Although, unlike you, despite our separated Imposition of shared estrangements, I still passionately yearn for blackening Olives, the ripening ears of the golden, Shimmering croplands.