What is gone is gone

Of so many moments I could pen,
Would Fail to choose, If I were to begin.
Each moment so deep, ingrained in my soul,
Each moment so pure, untouched by foul.

Know not I, which strings they play..
the chords they pull, the meodies they lay.
Every moment so full, of sadness or joy,
Every moment known, from the times gone by.

A poet's heart they summon, urging him to write,
saying so very often, we want to come to life.
Only a look of despair they get, from the poet they seek,
As he carries not anymore, the burdens they keep.

The guilt of betrayal, does not haunt him though,
Rather be honest, than put on a beautiful show.
What has gone is gone, with every moment lived true,
What is now is real, and it's history shall be new.

For when life goes on, why be left behind...
it comes only once, wasted with every rewind..
what has gone is gone, but it has made me,
what is now isn't aloof, for that is also me.