Wanted. A renegade poem on the run.
Evading capture and identification,
it slips through my fingers whenever I
reach out to grasp it. Tantalisingly close,
its form remains disguised, its words elusive.
I chase it down abandoned stanzas, past
forgotten metaphors. In dreams I glimpse
it but on waking it remains obscured,
lost in half formed kaleidoscopic snatches,
seen only on the periphery of thought.
I had no idea what to write about today, and so that is what I wrote about.
(15.02.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Vivasa Michael Parlow on Unsplash