The Tower

It was covered by a blanket of moss with a wood fence that looked as sturdy as a young child’s craft project, stretching across a patio, the memory of jazz. It had a tower on the balcony, reaching towards the moon in the midnight sky. A witches’ tower made with alchemy in which a kidnapped girl, hostage, would cry. It has a fierce lean, rivaling that of the famous Piza ruin, so extreme it looks it will fall if you give a shove. The castle, the image, must be a dream. An old green forest, decaying behind the stone castle, which I’m sure you can find.