Baptism


They came a shackled dozen at a time.

   All pale skin and saucer eyes and greasy hair,
   all dragging, hauling, bearing burdens
   ripped from white walls and stainless steel kitchens,
   lover's bedrooms and children's knapsacks.
   These sterile dreams of the new millennium
   etched in silicate a millisecond at a time
   gathered together by shackled masters 
   the tower reached toward the abandoned sky -- 
   bricked by the hands that once caressed.

They lit a match in the hope for a new world.

   The flames slipped crimson tongues 
   into the minds of the machines,
   sucked the mute husks dry,
   left monitors to stare accusingly with empty eyes --
   seconds before the crystals shattered and exploded.
   Only molten black structures remained,
   naked circuitry and twisted wire, 
   oddly graceful in their warped testimony
   to this pyrrhic victory of skin and bone. 

They rejoiced a flawed sigh at a time.

   Then curiosity slithered off to seek new blood, 
   casting soot-stained hands into shadow,
   as the new millennium dawned into darkness.
   They flexed liberated wrists,
   reached out for their switches and buttons
   and gasped when light did not flare brightly.
   In the end they stuttered and shivered,
   as no one remembered how to work
   the flesh and joints of humanity

and the ashes cried out --

Sandra Beasley's questions:

Is the style too melodramatic or prolonged?
Are any of the images unnecessary or blatant?