The father of my being is the father of yours.
The planting of his seed constructed our doors,
leading to the obvious teachings
of right and wrong;
comparing squares and circles,
things that do not belong.

You are the blood of my blood;
the skin of my skin,
protecting a mind in search of a cleanse.
My father’s blood is your blood.
His seed aroused your flower bud,
with words engraved from the tip of my spud.

by. Philip G. Steverson