The Hunted and the Huntsman

This is my first attempt at a sonnet - so don't expect much - they're much harder than I thought! I would appreciate constructive criticism. Personally I realise that the ending might be seen to be ambiguous. Maybe I'll work on it at some point.

I wanted to explain what the sonnet is about but perhaps you could give me your interpretation..!

Thanks - The Leaking Pen

Seduced by the huntsman’s call, she draws close.
Transfixed, aware of danger, stands static.
Escorts him, blindly, wherever he goes -
Bewitched - although his whim be erratic.
Others may try to entice her away;
He draws her near, she is his (he is hers?).
Long is the journey to where she will lay
In the snare where his betrayal occurs.
Hypnotized, yearning, she only follows -
Naïve, ignoring her fate, she remains.
She sees only him: this, the huntsman knows
And she does not see that he holds the reins.
At last, he stops and turns. The bow is raised.
Her poor heart bleeding and still yet is chased.

Invisible

She walked around like a ball of night; her heavy frame covered from top to toe in black. That which wasn’t – her silver watch and hematite bracelet – still emanated a cold and emotionless impression of a woman either too cold or too shy to reach; either way, impenetrable.

For the undecided (those who actually noticed her and took the time), some truth to who she was lay in her eyes, for they were the most expressive part of her. She could switch from a look of sincere warmth to one of undiluted evil before your blood knew it had frozen. She was aware of it, but didn’t understand just why that particular one remained with people, and was the one that she believed people felt represented who she was. Although bemused, she was slightly insulted by this, for she possessed both of these personality traits - essentially warm but with a mischievous streak – and a plethora of differently shaded facets in between.

Her mannerisms and silent energy only impressed to those who knew her intimately – and they were few. The slow rhythm of her walk was largely unnoticeable, but noticeable by the fact that it was not what one would expect and subtly different from those that busied around her. It could be mistaken for lazy, but her stillness – and when she wasn’t still, her light, yet slow, lucidity exuded understated grace was impressive.

She spoke usually only when she had something to say. This gave her an air of confidence, but her natural confidence had died a long time ago. When she spoke she tended to know what she was talking about – she was certainly intelligent and worldy-wise. She knew how to talk in whatever company, but was generally afraid to do so because she knew that she didn’t fit in whatever company. Those from a, “better” background would think her as common, and those from a similar background to her – a working class Londoner – would think she thought she was better than them. Either way they would think she was above herself.