Little old girl, with

wrinkles around her eyes, smiling a

neverending tear.

she leers

at the knell of old brass bells

with a sweaty sheen

across her forehead.

ancient eyes, and her long-forgotten

voice unite

with sepulchral tones,

booming from tarnished

metal, so high above,

in the church tower.

jerking on the sidewalk,

grinning the prosopopeia of the

waif she used to be, but her

yellow tombstone teeth are bared.

deranged, darting glances

grow more crazed with every passing

toll.

old brass bells knell their last

she looks down the

line of not-moaning mourning

and sees that she's not alone.

gasping as if in shock,

neck thrown backwards,

mouth snaps shut.

but eyelids flutter

and stick open, flashing a yellow

alert sign

to the sky, broadcasting

a smiling, silent violence

within what used to be alive.

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Prosopopeia - for simplification purposes, it's a type of personification.

If you don't understand, try taking a second look at the title.

Thanks for any comments you have to offer.