That one book is collecting dust
He saw and did nothing; some may see it as unjust. 
With each new day, it remained unaffected 
But that can only be expected. 

From afar he noticed the dusty book
It was all too easy for him to overlook.
Yet something about it, struck a chord
He began to wonder why he felt as ignored.

Did the dust tell a story of patience?
Or perhaps, even complacence? 
Whatever it was, a change was underway
He rushed to grab some cloth and some spray.

That one book was collecting dust
He saw and did something, he just had to readjust.
With each new day, he showed it more affection. 
And perhaps it was always his most prized possession.