The Marionette

At that certain young age
They are never sure
Stating one moment- He’s fake
And then in the next
Asking hesitantly - Is he real?

And it makes no difference
That they can see
The thin strings
Connected to his hands
And head and feet

But once he awakens
From his tangled sleep
And leaps into the air
To perform his little dance
All doubt disappears

And all they see
Is a little magic
Marionette man
Who is real