Book in a Box

There is a book in that box; though it is tattered and torn.
Once it was well loved, and kept out from the storm.
But now there it lies, with no home of its own.
With no one to read its pages, it might as well be a stone.
For that is how useful the book in the box has become.
With pages waterlogged, and the inked words nearly gone.
The book has no purpose, left alone in a box.
It has no reader, just a moldy old sock.
So when you young novels pass by after the rain blows through.
Remember the book in the box, for the same could happen to you.