Memory Fragments: Probity

Reap What You Have Sown (Bonanza)

Not a moment longer. When was it? It does not matter. The time to reap is at hand
From moments on end, to a matter of keeping quiet. Time escapes from my land
It is a bonanza of memories; buried and plucked. Together they go, a symphonic band
The pluck in my hand is a reaper's tool. This memory field, my one final stand

I was the reaper of notes. The killer bees on the other side while I shredded my A's
Yes, I had tons of albums. Lots of music that spoke the word I was too afraid to say
My instrumentals too. They sung the melody of my silent heart. My one true ace
But all that has been done and gone. But not until I blow them, once again, away

My comrades. My gaseous siblings. They have all been liquified by their own tears
Of noble cause we were back then. It is thanks to their crying that my field has grown
So many memories of our time as the band. The one band who everyone fears
But fear is until you know. Our identities gotten out, and everyone would have known

That is why we were noble gasses. Non-reactive by nature, but not all knew that
They feared our music would explode their most inner feelings out of them
Regardless of the outcome, some would still come to us without knowing what
What awaited them. A conversion of faith and labor. The reaping of their crumb

Yes, they fell apart each time we played. The solid walls of hesitation fall on the dirt
New memories are sown. New seeds brought by people who stood by liquid beliefs
Our heated lyrics boiled their chains until melting point and dragged along what they hurt
We were the heretics of nobility. We rocked to an end with our gaseous motifs

It might sound like a cult. It might feel like I was the leader of a religious boycotting
But really, I was just a farmer of ideals. Through my pluck, I reaped my one true ideal
But reaping their own fields, their own bonanzas of ideologies? I it did not feel like cutting
I just took whatever yield was useful to me and left the rest. My creed had its own appeal

We did nothing but sow and reap what we were given by the people who came to us
What music we produced; it was thanks to them that we were able to discern and reap
The one true farmer. The true musician. Takes notes and seeds from all kinds of surplus
Never confined to a single crop or tone. It is a bonanza one most keep and heap

Inspiration comes from anywhere and anyone. Just like the world, I too live among
I too feed off of my crops. I too am a seed who nourished from the fallen ones on the ground
Really, we are nothing but a combination of everyone else. We are a field of everyone's dung
Yes, we too must nourish from the shitty aspects of life. To know good from the bad abound

Every time I plucked a bad note. Choked on a bad seed. I reaped on my own shitty self
Mistakes were made and failures more so. Yet I mulched them up, and sowed my life anew
There is learning from a farmer's bad harvest. Perhaps what it sowed was not for itself
Tending to other's fields. Upkeeping foreign beliefs. Perhaps if there was nothing else you knew

That is why we welcomed all. Even the rival bands. To have a clash and then a feast of harvest
Conflict and invasive species wither fields, but learn to deal with them, and you reap stronger
We exchanged our yields and planted new and improved crops amidst our weather's harshest
Repeat and benefit. A harsh land tends to strong and bold, just like times do for much longer

I have reaped what I have sowed. A have had my bonanza, my life's harvest, and learning
Now, as I grow old, my time has come. My pluck I leave to you, after this one last reaping
This is not a yield for me, but for you. To learn the way of a farmer's tool, and its earning
I fought for what I believed. A seed of trust I sowed in everyone. A bonanza on my field's weeping