There’s a shadow on the ridge and it knows my name,
Whispers in the pine like a preacher’s shame.
I lit a match just to see his face –
But ghosts don’t burn, they just embrace.


He rides a pale horse with a rusted bridle,
Wears a coat made of time and an old revival.
He said, “You ain’t done, but you sure ain’t clean.”
Then he laughed like thunder through a tambourine.


So I ride with the ghost on a road made of dust,
Trading secrets for silence and sins for rust.
No home, no mercy, no map in sight –
Just a cold wind howling, and the edge of night.




We passed the grave of a man I was,
He tipped his hat but he wouldn’t discuss.
“Some things,” he said, “ain’t meant to be mourned –
They were dead long before they were born.”


I asked the ghost if he feared the end.
He smiled: “Son, the end’s an old friend.”


I saw my sins like crows in flight,
Circling slow in the holy light.
But the ghost just rode with steady breath,
Like he’d been through love, and worse – like death.


Now I ride with the ghost, not to run, but to learn,
That ashes don’t cry and saints don’t burn.
He don’t judge, and he don’t boast –
He just rides... and I ride with the ghost.


And when the morning breaks the spell,
I’ll ride alone… but not farewell.