My grandmother always told me such conflictions, Such perfect hypocrisy dripped from the corners of her mouth, As if she was salivating at her hand made narrative that kept everyone in their square, Like pieces on a chess board. It was the only control she had every had, To perpetuate the poison or die, Truthfully she was not the giant we all believed, Not the Matriarch of a dynasty She was a child still waiting to be held.