Chrysopoeia

It is said it'll come around one day.

But when it comes it doesn't stay.

It lived once. (Quite in decay)

But thusly faded anyway. 

Upon itself it did consume.

But space itself became it's doom.

And thoughts of leaving always loomed.

In of itself 

This unity

Detached without impunity.

And so destined it was to be

Sadly lost to history.

True death is

the loss of memory.

So as not to reciprocate this tragedy.