My hand shakes and quivers a bit
At times of importance, times of joviality.
My face burns like the ring of a hob,
My hands slide like melting plastic.
And the head is adrift, treacherously,
A lost ship close to jagged rocks.
The mind’s on the island asking why
The warning sign is always burning in the sky.
Seán O Muiríosa
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/burn-7/
