Marionette

A marionette,
Painted by the puppeteer
To please anyone
Who comes to see a show,
Lets her eyes wander
As she rests.
There,
Glinting in the light,
Sitting on the table
So close to her,
Is the tool she has desired
For so long.
She tugs at the threads
That the puppeteer uses
To make her dance,
Reaching for the object
On the table.
Pulling harder and harder,
Her hand finally clasps
Over the cool metal
Of the scissors.
She snips each binding line
With a smile on her face.
She is finally free
To seek out a paintbrush.
She will paint herself
They way she likes.