Things that are realized fully only by their undoing, or whose zeniths shortly precede their desistance:
Sun, proudest at the dimming of its ever returning glory, stretching to fill the horizon the expanse of its scouring wingspan, nightly dead and daily risen.
Warriors, fiercest amidst a hateful throng set upon their demise. They are wasted at the arms range and on the parade ground, busy work for their ritually bound blood, contracted to the Balance.
Martyrs, holiest at agony’s apex.
Empires, most imperial at their corrupted undoing.
A man, who has no notion of what he regards as truly important until the chemical theater which accompanies the coil’s ironing out reveals in stark clarity the true revelation of his earthly mission, he is horrified then at selfishness and squanderance.
Alchemisland 
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