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Prone Burial

by Void Dancer

  • Digital Album
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  • Compact Disc (CD) + Digital Album

    Prone Burial on CD
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    - Full color 4 panel digipak w/ lyric insert

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Enter the union of fire and wind as the masses accumulate. Lowering standards of beauty for something that I don’t appreciate. Head in the future, heart in the past, body in misery. Prepare for another lifetime of what is, was, ever will be. I lay face down in dissonant harmony. The city sheds leaves for me.
From under the earth. Repine scorched earth. Claim your plot to trade it. When streets seem deserted, they throng with deeds of the mentally ill. A sanctuary won’t be found. This cemetery knows no bounds. Long dead dreams in a haze of misanthropy. Belong or be ignored. Medicated subliminal scorn. Your headaches become your new gods. A sanctuary won’t be found. A list of names that make no sound. We dream buried in concrete. Nothing is sacred, it’s all for sale. Exposed bodies in the open. Arms raised, chest to the blackening sun. The blaze churning all around you. Watch as utopia lives, utopia learns. Scorched earth. Exposed, dead last in the rat race. Arms raised, chest to the ambient sun. The blaze spreading as the crowds do. Watch as utopia burns.
Draw the curtains. The drama begins. Unconvincing as you swim against a current of retroactive sin. Traverse the waters, a sea of excrement. In my rendition of the tides, we hold our breath as oceans rise. Line the shore with usurpers and nonbelievers, dragging anchors to pull the rest of us down. Die young unless you want to live to mourn. Die young before you have to face yourself. In my rendition of the tides, we meditate as spirits rise to occasions and curse the sanctimonious alter. Reflections becoming stagnant in consciousness until we drown. The cycle never-ending. The lunar phases press upon your chest, there is no intermission. The fourth wall breaks with millions in attendance. A sea meets the sky, sink or levitate. The harvest moon illuminates my sacrifice. A bioluminescent theatre with hypnotizing light. In the deep end is where I learned to swim. Give me a reason to survive with no support from either side. Heavy and hollow, if the driftwood won’t sink, then neither will I. Give me a reason to survive. To breathe above the tide. Line the shore with my failures. The non-believers throwing roses. Take a bow.
These muted walls will never reply. I am an echo imprisoned inside. These winding halls continue. I’ve lost all track of time. Always shocked, never surprised. The true never last long, the rest never die. Enjoying isolation, immaculate design. We spin off kilter in the crooked labyrinth. I denounce every father who has led me here. A god sized hole gaping with knowledge of heretic lore. A god sized hole consuming without and within. There is nothing left to squander, just a broken moral compass and my final years to wander. As I enter through maternal gates, I agree to eternity inside. The glowing center of the maze holds something, nothing I care to find. Entranced by the chalice of the center labyrinth. On high to the heavens to drink what’s left of it. I denounce every father who has led me here. A god sized hole empty and thriving with heretic lore. A god sized hole consuming within.
A fear of height serves a constant reminder: how far your flaws can fall. Fear of success keeps you from reaching for it. Embrace your time, waste your life waiting in vertical lines just to climb and gain nothing of value. High contrast, low exposure. Undernourished and under restraint as we climb then decline just to end up in the same place. A constant state of crisis. The altitude is sickening, we push on. With heels to finger every rung. Never looking down because the guilty learn not to feel guilty for the ones they walk upon. One step upward beckons voices from the bottom they are pleading, taunting, haunting. Your sight of mind is blind, you never look three steps away. No victory to celebrate, ascend. Cynics and climbers to the overcrowded middle. Loathe yourself as much as I loathe those above. Constant state of crisis: drawn, quartered, pushed and pulled. Noose around achieving necks, bloodletting of the pure. I’ve seen red stains on the top rung. The altitude is sickening. I’ve seen enough so I let go.
No space within the border, inverted silhouettes. Under my feet, deep in the soil, disorienting seeds. To the surface they grow as the earth tones are swallowing me. My skin translucent, I’m fading in body and mind. I crawl past the fault lines understanding that the fault is mine. We call in time to ourselves each night. The voices reply “walk further into the light”. With last words in mind on deathbeds, all paralyzed. We sleep with our demons to awake out of body upon our deathbeds. All paralyzed. I awake to unfamiliar leaves surrounding me. Erase a memory, confusion leads the way. Stray sod. Trust your instincts, aurora light the way. A solitary ritual to disassociate from my muse, illusive. Decaying before my eyes. I’m lost in the forest, I’m lost in life. Abusive, dream lucid, it fails almost every time. I live in a nightmare resurrected but the end is nigh. If my body gives out before my mind, bury me where I lie. The voices will reply “keep walking further into the light”. Out of Body, out of mind. To sleep on our deathbeds, all paralyzed. Stray Sod
As a palm reads of misfortune, you are meant for the fist. To reject fate is a torture. I can tell you how hard it hits. The vast shades of dull grey multiply. You will bend, never break. With a passive disillusion to the trees and a curse deeply rooted as I count all of my rings. A cascade of old shame floods the soul. Let it wash over me. A cascade of undying shame. Misfortune, from which you came. Even illiterate minds can open and read you. A line of heart ends, the reading was true to the fact that you follow in footsteps walked on paved roads. To the fact that you try to find false pride in this hell hole, in spiral shame. Don’t become a victim to your own heart, because some are made to be broken. And some are thriving and full. Unfit for living inside of a box, in a palm that reads misfortune. Despite any efforts of valor the reading was true to the fact that you wallow in sorrow to the same songs. To the fact that you choose to plant roots where you don’t belong, in spiral shame. If horses were wishes my ride would end soon. My wishes never come true. I want every breath, nothingness, an abyss manifested. They say fake it until you make do, most never will. The read stays true. These hands have serpents inside. Slither, coil, and writhe.
Living Wake 00:57
You will sing with arms raised and chest to the sun. The echoing miles, disharmonious choirs. As they lower a body face down. No peace within the ground. A season end abound.


released April 22, 2022

All music written and performed by Void Dancer

Zane Smothermon - Guitar
Stephen Glade - Bass
Clint Gee - Throat
Brandon DuPraw - Drums
Ilya Ignatov - Guitar

Engineered by Gavin Olson
Mixed and Mastered by Jamie King
Art by Alexandre Goulet

Modern Grievance 2022


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Void Dancer Seattle, Washington

deprivating progressive death

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