If only I was made of ink,

Living in a fabricated reality,

Where my fate is crafted by Austen,

And my fortune is turned by Rowling.

To be written into a single chapter,

Where I could save Lenny from himself,

And George from a guilt ridden life.

If only to wander into Olivanders,

While dawning my robes of green and silver,

Or simply to catch a glimpse of the boy who lived.

To exist on pages carefully penned by Austen,

To watch as Darcy falls for Elizabeth,

And knowing my happy ending awaits.

If only I could see through the mist,

And find my way past the Delphi Strawberry Service,

All to dwell in cabin 13.

But alas, those pages are fantasy,

Instead my reality is a future unwritten,

No author to ensure me a happy ever after,

If only I was made of ink.