Grimm’s Needle & the Ghosts of Ink

He rode the surf from seaside town to dusty pier, With a battered old kit and a heart that knew no fear. His hands were stained with stories, his eyes a steady fire, He etched the souls of sailors, gave their pain new attire. They say his shop was a beacon when the night was black and still, The hum of his machine a prayer, bent to iron will. He was Bert Grimm, master of the needle and skin, Drawing dragons, roses, hearts, under the salt-sea wind. With his needle’s holy whisper, he gave the lost a name, In Grimm’s ink they found their solace, in his art their flame. He learned from rag-tag drifters, from hardened ship-wrecked men, He carried compass, courage - and a longing again and again. He spoke no lies to the ones whose bodies held the scars, He carved their hopes like constellations, tracing Venus, tracing Mars. And every sailor who walked in felt the stories in his hands, By the lamp-light in that parlor, he made them more than just the man. They said his needle sang a song of freedom and regret, That the ghosts of all the lost men whispered in the silhouette. He held both fear and faith together on each trembling line And he passed the torch to those who’d follow, in the dark, in the brine. „Can you feel the heartbeat?“ „Yes, in every line!“ „Will you wear your story?“ „In ink that lasts through time!“ He was Bert Grimm, master of the needle and skin, Drawing dragons, roses, hearts, under the salt-sea wind. With his needle’s holy whisper, he gave the lost a name, In Grimm’s ink they found their solace, in his art their flame. He was Bert Grimm, master of the needle and skin, His art a roaring lighthouse when the night was closing in. With his needle’s steady heartbeat, he answered every cry, In the hum of Grimm’s machine, the lost men learned to fly. And when the tide calls softly and the moon leans toward the sea, You can hear his needle humming in the salt & memory.