The Secu-Larynx

Stop and smell the roses, so they say, and right they are.
Myself had sampled several ere I traveled very far.
The road is long and dusty but the Rose is soft and sweet,
I find the effort futile, fail to focus on my feet.

I’d rather smell the roses than abide the avenue;
The dirty road’s for everyone, the Rose, she blooms for you.
Enjoy the random rose that grows along the narrow track,
You’ll find the finest roses are the ones who smell you back.

Everybody knows The Rose is born of beauty rare;
Aroma permeates, intoxicates, but can’t compare
To peeling back the petals and the secrets they expose,
For loving all the layers is the worship of the Rose.

Six trips around the yellow sun, six trips has made my son,
Each one a revolution born of notions new and fun.
Each evolution etched upon a happy child’s face,
Six trips, the same ellipse, a solar circuit set in place.
Six trips exactly similar in terms of time and space,
Yet each affects uniquely every runner in the race.
Six trips has made my son around the sun, my only one.
And those six trips around the sun in turn have made my son.