Here's me dreaming that I'm Feyre and casually writing poetry to pass the time:

A canvas bare and waiting, under twilight's soft embrace,

Becomes a silent landscape, where my soul can find its place.

With hues of hope and longing, in strokes bold and fine,

I craft a world of dreams, where the Sidra aligns.

Escape is but a brushstroke, a palette of desire,

Each color a silent promise, each shade a burning fire.

A world born of starlight, of moonbeams and of dreams,

Where nothing is as it seems, where I'm free to scheme.

In the quiet of the night, under a sky of painted hue,

I find my sweet escape, my reality anew.