I cannot reconcile this embarrassing scene
of these two figures whom are both so distinct—
an angel floating overhead, so serene,
and, below, a satyr given to ruttish instinct.
The angel sings of high ideals: poetry and art,
and is an asexual creature that adores the sublime
while also lauding its own enlightened heart
and all whom should wear a halo, in time.
But see the scandalous, horn-crowned satyr
as he frots upon some frothy-legged nymphs;
one after the other, the compulsive fornicator
is frenzied at any intimate glimpse.
The satyr waves to the angel, wryly grinning
and pumping away at the nymphs in repose
and the angel sneers in disdain, brusquely spinning
away as the bestial act comes to a close.
Is this all there is to Man? This conflicted binary
of pretense and impulse in constant friction?
Or do the traits of human inheritance vary
beyond the id and the superego fiction?