A Sonnet as an Ode

A vanity she sits before, with rosy cheeks and tousled hair;
lost in a myriad of thoughts and not a care.
Reflection has entranced her there.
Entrenched in darkness behind the glass, silence speaks.
WHUMP! And little claws are scratching at the window,
startling the rose out of reverie, unfolding with a shriek.
A hoary blackbird's tattered, bloody wings, and gory beak
outside the weathered pane. The frightful bird - CAWS - sounds of woe,
as in a night-time curse, or fate in flight,
that left the rose both blind, and dumb, and mewed;
the bird began to renew. Obsidian feathers flushing bright,
and fleshing out, as all the gore and blood retreated to give it back its hue.
A curse, once upon an ancient nightingale,
now, again, an inverted virgin - is Philomel