In a world of pages and prose,
Where tales and stories interpose,
There dwelled a book, so proud and grand,
Its binding strong, its words unplanned.

Yet, within its sacred core,
Lay a sentiment books often bore,
A feeling of disdain, a seething spite,
For a tiny strip that marked with might.

The bookmark, slender and light,
Longed to guide, to bring delight,
But the book, indignant and bold,
Felt violated, its tale untold.

"Oh, bookmark! Cease your cruel act,
To mark my pages, you detract,
Each line and verse, I hold so dear,
Is marred by you, it's crystal clear."

The bookmark, gentle and serene,
Responded with a voice so keen,
"Fear not, dear book, my humble role,
To keep your place, to save...