Steps into Silence

Step One:
Wait for dusk to paint the sky—
not full of noise, but soft and shy.
When colors fade and time feels thin,
that’s when your vanishing begins.

Step Two:
Wear something loose, forget the bright.
Choose shades that blend with edge of night.
A cloak of dusk, a hood of breeze—
walk softly through the whispering trees.

Step Three:
Speak only once, then hold your breath.
Let silence be your quiet death.
Words are threads that tie you down—
cut loose before they make you drown.

Step Four:
Erase your name from stone and book.
Let no one trace where they might look.
Burn the maps and bend the roads,
leave echoes where your story showed.

Step Five:
Follow the wind where it forgets,
past tangled dreams and sunless nets.
Step lightly through the sleeping glade—
you’re almost gone, you almost fade.

Step Six:
Don’t wish to be remembered well.
The ones who vanish never dwell.
You are a shadow’s second skin—
no start, no end, just what has been.

Final Step:
Close your eyes, and breathe in deep.
Fall like a feather, not like sleep.
You’re not alone, you’re just unseen—
a secret held in evergreen.