Damaged repercussion

Little falling Holly
was sitting beneath the rows
of broken tattered faces
all wrung and wrought with foes,
across the seas of happiness
where everyone paints their face
to look as real as real can be
conformity in displace,
these rivers thrash and overflow
in rising weeps and waves
washing the hands of bloody trace
and crippling cracks of broken graves,
yet still the stillness
it clamors through
like the flora of afternoon
seeking desperate the sunny rays
of an end that comes too soon.

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