Circular Breathing 6:

(And to these travelers, nothing)

And with that, we entered Wonderland,
and all the curses of dreams gained
and found wanting were bestowed upon
our heads, all hopes crushed by their
simple fulfilment, the taste of
something long yearned for and yet
all wrong somehow on our tongues,
for we had changed upon the road--
what we imagined to be Eden catering to
dead and ghosted versions of ourselves;
catering to dreams wished into the
vanity of truth, betrayed by that
which kept us alive, and what
screams against the falsehood of
dreams attained, knowing that
is the road of the dead and
those who wait to die and are
worse than dust.

But the biting sting of the dust
is not the worst, for we have
waited, even when we said we'd
rather die than ache a moment longer
because we knew that attainment of
our dreams was out there, that
all the falsehoods of the road
and the legerdemain we'd perpetrated
while the sirens screamed had
allowed us to live, perhaps kept,
perhaps whored, but never betraying
the truth of our vanity--that we
would win in the end, that a
version of ourselves, or perhaps
only a ghost in that Dark Hereafter
might one day attend that catered
feast, but on that long road, with
all the diesel fumes and grit
upon our tongues, all that time we
were wrong, yearning long for
fulfilment damned, our minds
turned simple, our reason crushed
under the myth of a Wonderland
we could never truly survive to
enter.