Chris Milne Writes: Poetry, Philosophy and Essays

What do we see, 

When we look at a boundary?

A wall, a threshold;

Something not to cross, lest one be bold.


Must the boundary take a form?

Must it be felt, pinch us like a thorn?

I posit nay, and it is clear as day,

That boundaries must not be made of clay.


We have boundaries of spirit;

Amorphous, yet binding; can you see through it? 

It feels as though on the path to become,

I must be a boundary between the many and one.


Like him of my namesake,

I protect those from the torrent:

You will cross without a scrape.

But what challenges me now,

That to which I must bow:

Will I be able to escape?


See, once stretched and formed,

A boundary takes hold; it cannot be torn.

And with myself stretched thin,

Hammered down, like a sheet of tin.

I must ponder: if I become a boundary,

Will I be able to continue to see myself in me?