Cyclopean Horror

‘Twas bleak December, silent and somber,
His ride broken, on a road unspoken.

That cursed new model, so soon busted idle,
In a place so weary, on a day so dreary.

How was he to travel, to his home live and revel,
When one’s left alone, in somewhere so unknown?

T’was a junkyard he saw,
With old parts strewed in raw.
Perhaps he can fix that car after all;
There must be a tool in those mounds so tall.

Through a nick in the railing, he crossed the opening,
Past the threshold of humanity, into the pit of insanity.

There laid the horror, awaiting the explorer.
Disguised in curious beauty, nonchalant without duty.

“Magnificent art!” he did so impart,
“So deranged, yet with symmetry all arranged!”

And then upon approach the husk spawned to life,
With a great cyclopean eye riled red with strife.

Those limbs raised coldly, like executioners armed.
In a shriek of madness death mercilessly swarmed.

We now know that ‘twas no artist’s statue,
None but the deadly Cyclopean Virtue.