Who Is Holding The String

What sets me off are effing scabs that fester, picking resin from their nose to play their splintered violins as if Mantovani were their audience. But, who is holding the string? Choking in their bottle's anxiety a shadow of bereavement suffering the bird of twilight gnawing at the cuttlebone beguiling the grave's picket fence. Knitting a narcissistic bellwether to lead the hungering herd without a clue, jumping through hoops just to get a piece of the falling sky. Hubris leaves a nasty taste of arrogance and swarming locusts. Choking in their bottles anxiety oaring on the River Styx. But, who is holding the string, walking the naughty?