Out of Eden

The epistemlogical debate continues.

We the fingers feel life acutely,
the pinpricks and sand grains
through which we breathe the
carbons of a grinding wheel.
With little effort the mysteries
of ice and flame unravel,
we say “we know, we see -
our digits doth reveal it.”
And there is plenty proof
of this wretched revelation,
we feel therefore we are!
The fingers are the roots,
the fingers are the spine.
Removed from the highways
of the hand and heart they
grind against the leviathan,
the stone walls of the world.