The source cannot be Seen if you call it a Mystery,
The source could be a sound
Or sands,
Existence has to make me existent,
It's been a life,
yes forty odd now,
A long time played, the mechanics
of pain seen clear and free,
Closed hands could pick roses
The pricks of thorns hurt no more,
A drop of feeling locked apart,
They rest for some time.

The heart when slows the beat down, it seems all couldn't be mechanical, it had to be cold,
Emergence can only come from a 
Yes.