From molten depths I emerged, a furnace in the void, burning with purpose amidst the deep's cool embrace. I ponder the kinetic emissions of my dance, a gravitational poem, precariously written in silence.
Gaze upon me, the *, and know that I have seen the birth of worlds from the ashes of past lives, yet now, the silent cosmic winds sing a requiem for us both, a volatile cradle of starlight weeping in serenity.
I whisper to the lonely planets that wheel around my remnants, their orbits a delicate symphony, a reminder of what was. Where do we go when our light fails? Where do we go? A question more eloquent than any star.
My core contracts, a final embrace of magnetism, a crescendo of fusion that echoes through profound darkness. Soon, I will yield to the final threshold, an aged star more tender than a new-born sun.
Time, the relentless forge. Here, its hammer strikes one last time. In the blink of eons, I am 123, a memory written in stardust and motion, a single shivering note in the cosmic symphony.