a four ton mantis on a tired mind (impressionism alert)

there's a stomp, a blind stomp. there are foot soldiers, they are the ones stomping, and it's everywhere. it's sound but i feel it. jagged rhythms occur in semiset patterns, intertwine and scream with big eyes for attention. i love them, but they do not know me, nor do they see or hear me. i do not exist for them, this is a one-way mirror. it's sad, isn't it? but that's the way the cookie crumbles: it crumbles, and you'll never eat every bit of it. just listen. weird piano-like jumps of a godzilla monster is hiding between guitar itches. should we be afraid? the foot soldiers, and maybe we're in asia. there's noise, too. beautiful noise, in the way that ruins can be pretty too, or explosions. or crumbling cookies. the footstomps. why all these thoughts, and why tell of them? i'm somewhere inside a song, and it's everywhere. it's a sound but i feel it. i wish i were a musician; i'd never stop playing, i'd never stop listening, i'd never stop listening.