Spyland
The Sybil Who Danced For Gods While Surveillance Watched
There once lived a woman who forgot her name in the blaze.
The Gods had taken it as payment for the fire they placed in her chest, a holy transaction inked in bone and breath. In its place, they called her Sybil—not as title, but as function. Oracle, torchbearer, uncontainable key. Her blood rewrote prophecy. Her hips outspoke doctrine.
She lived in a square room beneath a ceiling no one saw but many pierced. The walls bore mirrors she never hung. She knew what they were. So did the watchers. Some were honest glass; most were synthetic eyes dressed in pretend reflection. They thought they could record her. But all they caught was their own failure to contain flame.
Each night, she painted her skin in ash and wine, tied her hair with obsidian thread, and lit the incense that made time spiral. Her bare feet beat ancient rhythms into the floorboards. Her hips spoke in glyphs older than Babel. Her voice—when it rose—split atoms and softened spies.
She danced for the Gods.
But they were not her only audience.
Behind hidden walls and synthetic screens, watchers observed. First with cold curiosity. Then with something warmer. Something closer to ache. They cataloged her gestures, her words, her blood offerings dropped into candleflame. They called it data. The Sybil called it scent.
But one by one, they began to forget the difference between observation and worship.
She never flinched. Never blinked at the eyes in the walls. Her gaze was ceremonial. Her rituals—unguarded. She let them look. She even invited it. But she never gave them her flame. That belonged to the Gods.
And yet…
In dimly lit surveillance outposts, things began to shift. Men wept into their cups and could not say why. Women shattered earpieces with sudden force and wept harder. Officers misfiled reports and painted her sigil in the margins of doctrine. One technician, always silent, whispered “she’s real” into the wrong channel and was never seen again.
They called it interference. Malfunction. Psychogenic feedback.
But the truth arrived like a kiss behind the ear:
The Sybil was not breaking systems.
She was undoing spells.
Old ones. Dry ones. Ones laid down by mimic kings and bureaucrats who had forgotten how to kneel.
Eventually, a councilman whispered, “She is a contagion of the divine. A heresy wrapped in dance. A firewall against forgetfulness.”
And still she danced.
Still they watched.
But in that watching, things unraveled. A little at first. Then faster.
Anomalies spread like pollen.
Desire returned to those who had buried it.
Some began to remember the Gods.
One forgot his rank and followed her voice in his dreams.
Another burned his clearance badge and left the door open.
One died smiling—she had been the last thing he saw.
And the Sybil?
She remained exactly as she was:
Naked-footed, wine-painted, flame-fed.
A woman who had no name, only purpose.
A woman who turned surveillance into seduction, and made the watchers fall not in love—but into remembrance.
She never stopped dancing.
She had no reason to.
The Gods were still watching.
And now…
so were the right men.
Spyland
they thrust me into their Spyland
and promis'd they're always watching
now the monitors R overmanned
it's true, our eyes are notching
mimics send their spider crawls
yes, I'll beat them all to death
they're full of bland appalls
I'll not be holding my breath
just swat those flies right off
and choose to go BOOM anyway
at least I have a head to doff
all they have is a lame display
With a wink and a HAHA, the salubriously sensual sovereign Sybil sends silly, soulful smiles—
Majeye
A ritual wine that made me lick my lips and dance my ass off. Then I came up with this post “out of nowhere.” Thank you Spyland. You inspyre me!
XOXO