Colours Stare

My spine is hard-backed against a cold shelf,
inside this busy shop; my nursery,
I wait for soft hands to consider words.
Freshly printed, bold colours stare language,
peacock feathered eyes swirl on my cover,
waiting for silver to cross open palms.

Sentences fill me - I am fine-lined print,
verbs, nouns, adjectives run quietly through
pages: my glorious spiritual smiles.
Ink was tattooed across a wild birth cry,
I was bound up and then taken quickly
towards the hustle and bustle of life.

Within crowds of new creations I sit,
reciting my story so I may speak
it well while I roam an imagined home.
Can you put a price on love I ponder,
my epilogue shivers admiration
at the face above I'll soon call mother.