In the middle of the wood there are five dead
vowels, forged by greedy linguists from the
first line that they perceived as sound.

The first was bent until ends uniformly faced the
heavens, and it was balanced on it's rounded
arch, catching acorns away from hungry squirrels.

The second was bent and bent 'til ends met so
there was not a space around, and it was elevated
unawares by tendrils of vine that it banded together.

The third was taken further, no spaces were left,
and a tail was formed to hold its tattered shape
above the filthy floor of rotting leaves and mud.

The fourth was twisted further still, until it was
a surgical needle, threading sentences through
its eye and pulling them with sharpened leg,
helping spiders web their branches at night.

The fifth was spared from bending and twisting,
for it was pulled end from end, until one finally
broke free, and they didn't see the need to paste
it back together, discarded with the dying twigs.