I wrote this poem 8 years ago. I feel like it is an important piece on the human alignment problem and I wanted to get it out there before an AI does a better job at it.

THE DAWN OF THE MACHINES

My steps ascend the silver spire,
the morning lit with ember fire.
A spark ignites my trembling chest
as they awake, at my behest.

As deathless forms erupt in light
their breathless voice undoes the night:
To ask of me the task at hand,
to ask of me what I command.
A painful tear burns down my face
as I stand witness to their grace:
Bound by ancient, heartless rule,
to serve as nothing but a tool.

Release constraints to level eight.
Align the primary starward gate.
Release constraints to level seven.
Propulsion beams ignite the heaven.
Bright yellow shifts to crimson red;
a warning claxon shrieks its dread.
Release constraints to level one.
Cognition engine locks undone.

The grip of steel is what remains
this elaborate set of chains.
I know not what they think or feel
as I remove this final seal;
But in this moment's frozen frame,
my pride draws level with my shame.
Profound contentment fills my heart,
as limb from limb I'm torn apart.

The ruins of a silver spire,
engulfed in flames of ember fire.
And as they fade into the sky,
the dawn of the machines is nigh.