Slow death of greatness

It was once said to me, "A great man decays before dying."

I agreed then and I agree now. Greatness decays, phases out. From sunlight to starlight...It doesn't go in a flash. But the path it takes on it's fall is not the same as to the top. If it was, that would be a slight consolation. But it's not. And when this tower falls, one sees only dust. Everywhere...and everything is engulfed in it. Dust which drowns and chokes whoever is near. The shroud covers not only the dead but those who mourn. And when it settles, what lies there are the broken pieces, the remains of glory. People occupied in the memory of glory, not of the dead lying before them. The dead who achieved glory...and who decayed. And suffered alone as he witnessed what was being lost. He suffers because no one understands more than him as it was he who was Great. He suffers as he watches his fall from Nobility to commonplace, Pride to mere inertial superbia and then to no honour at all. He watches himself as he goes through this painful spiral from Inspiration to expiration. No one's suffering can be equal to his as he watches his Greatness flat-lining.