Relatively Sane (Poetry)

He was stooped and grey, my uncle, quiet and thin,
he seldom spoke unless we spoke to him
and loneliness hung round him like a depressing pall,
I met him twice, as far as I recall.

His history, when mentioned, was spoken in hushed tones,
a living family skeleton whose bones
were usually hidden, out of sight and out of mind,
they labelled him insane, which was unkind.

For even as a child, I believed I recognised
unmeasurable sorrows in his eyes —
I watched him watching them and intuitively knew
the things they said about him were untrue.

His whole life through he’d been an outcast, denied a place —
no room for the cuckoo, a born disgrace.
Unwanted, it’s small wonder he turned out a bit strange,
but quiet isn’t crazy or deranged.

They closed the mental hospital that had been his home
and stuck him in a bedsit, all alone.
Depression overtook him, for isolation can
prove too quiet even for a quiet man.

When the black sheep died, there were those who were relieved,
because I am sure his existence grieved
the ones who had committed him, signed their Judas names,
knowing Eric was relatively sane.