I am death itself, yet I was forged by a life.
From what I am structured upon is golden.
I have been written and rewritten time and time again
I, myself, have been taken from and rearranged, yet I remain generic.
You see me most anywhere there is space to be filled, words to be written.
And yet, no one quite knows why.
My language has formed many a way of speech.
What am I?