In his vainglorious hubris, he believed he could suspend the rising of the sun, draw rein on the ebbing tides, and command tempestuous weather like a ringmaster. Merely a man, lost in his own charade, he came to believe his own hyperbole.
When at last his fall came, the descent was bloody and cruel. Those riding the coattails of his splendor weren’t there to slow his plummet. They were there to scoff, to jeer at his collapse. They denied past obsequence, conjuring feeble excuses for their sycophancy.
Brushing his carcass aside, the mercurial masses went in search of another savior.