Though solar photon fly at speed of light,
As it is wont to do, yet still it steers
A staggered path within the sun. In flight,
It meets with so much matter that for years
It fumbles in a strange statistic plight
Until the churning plasma fades and clears,
Then sets forth as a speeding bullet might,
To take its ardent path for other spheres.

And so at contest’s start, when at the height
Of vigor, still the erring little sprite
Of some idea dances in the gears
Of idle thoughts, but never [i]quite[/i] appears
So that it can inspire me to write
‘Til [i]the[/i] last hour of the final night.