Purity Poem by Brian Taylor

In the dark tabernacle,
a shaft of sunlight
illumines the heart
and shines through
a million years of dust.

Clouds and clouds of swirling
dust
spiralling
through the light
which spills in a golden pool
on damp, grey stone and iron rust.

When the light moves
it does not take the dust there to it.
When the dust slides into darkness,
the light does not pursue it.

Why then does the heart invent
heart bruising burdens to shoulder?
(Why does the heart consent
to the illusion of growing older?)