His crimson skin—to indicate the flush
Of sinner’s blood, the scorch of wrong desire.
His leathern wings—to call to mind the night
Through which the soul must pass, and pass itself.
Those hooves and horns of Pan—the will of nature,
To which we cannot bend if we would live
As our true nature summons us to be,
Yet if ignored, will gore us in the end.

But where is he? Within us or without?
A navigating bat who sounds the void,
He probes us, but is almost never seen;
And like a goat, born to be sacrificed,
He bears himself the selves we would forget,
His face our own made monstrous by regret.