Between the Lines

There's a book on a shelf, long forgotten and neglected
Its pages gather dust, once cherished, now dejected
No fingers have touched its spine, nor written in its pages
Its story goes quite unread, its plotline simply ages
Once loved and memorized, now cast from the light
It lays in the darkness, hopes for new stories to write
So one day perhaps a dedicated reader will find it
Draw it from the shadows, clean and rebind it
Take it outside to where the sun warmly shines
And reads it again, even between the lines