The Mine

You go your way

and I’ll gomine.

Sure, we'll meet again,

If we must.

Just? Lust? Bust? Trust?

Dust?

Bottled in brine,

Or a grape’s hue, 

in cheap glass

for expensive wine.

Or some other 

such fine.

It would be divine. 

If you could but go your way,

And me, mine. 

Someone found the beast in swine,

Another in steak bovine,

Both stood to undine,

In name of god,

or some other such.

To reason their whine.

Asinine.

And then go on to mine.

To mine. 

To pay some taxes, 

And a speeding fine.

Suffer famine.

For crossing across 

the  astronomical,

gastronomical,

diabolically obliterated,

explicitly forbidden,

fruits, meats, leaves,

in group of nine.

And then to abuse, 

as if

by right birth,

the form feminine.

(Which is my mother's,

So will also,

always,

be mine.)

It's not a symbol,

to bang your cymbals.

Read the sign. 

Extinct, indistinct.

From across that blurred,

blurred line.