I was runner up to your queen.
You fulfilled all your obligations.
I languished as understudy.
I never learned to be true blue.
Green suited me better.
A black hole to your rising sun,
a whirling pit of negativity,
a weed in shadow
while your rose bloomed.
I lived on leftovers,
the queue of mediocrity,
the rejects, wannabes and never weres,
the Calibans longing for Miranda.
Wearing a leather jacket
doesn't make you Joey Ramone.
Caliban learned to hate
what he could never possess.
Passion becomes poison
whispering in the dark.
Blue roses never bloom,
stunted in their growth.
My betrayal blossomed
in reptilian silence.
The greenery flourished.
