Written in the deepest element of all creation,
From the cold hard stone which forms the earth
To the star petals set aloft on thy airy brow
And the green blue blood flowing trenched between-
In the mists and the shadows,
In the crags and the effaces,
In the changing and the unchanging-
Inexhorable, art thou, Truth.
This poem sort of corresponds to one of my old (i.e. absolutely terrible instead of just terrible) stories. I was thinking, what if every story had a core made of words, like the earth’s core of molten iron. What would that core be? Oh, and thank you, Percy Bysshe Shelley, for the title inspiration.