Slow steps on cold concrete,

Dusty boots, heart beatin' offbeat,

Eyes hid beneath a tilted brim,

Skyline gold, light growin' dim.

He rides in with the wind and grime,

A ghost with no need for time.

Ain’t no welcome, just the city buzzin’,

But he walks on—man, time don’t rush him.

Ain’t no prairie here, just sirens and rails,

Still he drags his old wild tales.

Desert breath in a chest so tight,

In this jungle made of steel and lights.

And he rides, even though there ain’t no ground,

Under street lamps, people look but don’t come around.

With a heart shaped like a .45 spark,

He’s a cowboy driftin’ through Bryant Park.

He don’t ask, don’t leave no trace,

Speaks with eyes, dreams in space.

Black coffee at the crack of day,

Every move got somethin’ to say.

Stranger tongue in a crowded place,

But truth still showin’ on his face.

Thoughts loop like vinyl hiss,

To the city’s beat — cold, hard, and slick.

Ain’t no stars, just traffic and stone,

But he still hums that prairie tone.

Wind in his soul, scars on replay,

New fears tryna push the old dreams away.

And he rides, even though there ain’t no ground,

Under street lamps, people look but don’t come around.

With a heart shaped like a .45 spark,

He’s a cowboy driftin’ through Bryant Park.

Ain’t chasin’ glory or redemption signs,

Just a place where his name might align.

World’s spinnin’ on flames and bass,

He’s a whisper of time in a brand new space.