🪄 Sorcerer of Syntax

(Master of the Metaphorical Arts)

One of my subscribers recently called me a magician—not a poet.
I never expected to be called that, not when I was a kid just falling in love with reading, being the nerd reading under blankets like it was a secret spell.
But that comment stayed with me.
And it sparked this piece.

To whoever left that under one of my poems—
thank you.
This one's for you.

Read with the song Nothing Else Matters by Metallica playing in the background.

I don’t write.
I enchant.
Script in the sand,
sigils in stanzas—
I snap my fingers,
and language dances.

I flirt in form.
I tease in tense.
Each stanza a slow strip
of sense from sense.
My diction drips—
decadent, dense—
and every intense word
is laced with suspense.

Poised in prose,
precise and profane,
I plant parables
in pleasure and pain.
My metaphors murmur,
my cadence climbs.
Feel me flicker
between the lines.

Watch it:
words warp the wind
when I whisper.
Pages pulse and
Pens quiver.
Even silence listens
when I deliver.

I wear metaphors like armor.
My tongue’s a wand
wrapped in wit and warning—
every vowel lands
like portals entwining.

I don’t chase rhyme.
I coax it, coerce it—
call it closer
with clever curses.
Lit with logic,
lit with lust—
even scholars stammer
when my ink combusts.

I once wrote a phrase
that bent a priestess’ vow.
One that made a monk
say “teach me how.”
I’ve turned logic to longing
with a single mark,
left whole libraries
trembling in the dark.

Some bleed ink.
I bend it.
I breathe in raw thought,
and birth it splendid.
I summon stanzas
that make time stall,
and craft crescendos
that undress it all.

Once, I wrote a verse
that cracked a crown.
Another that made
a cynic drown.
My couplets curled
around her spine—
she said my rhyme
felt like a crime.

But I’m not criminal,
I’m just profound.
Call it a crime if it burns too bright—
but I never wrote for law or light.

This isn’t writing—
it’s ritual.
Every syllable: residual.
A twist of phrase,
a shift of tone,
and I’ve lit a fire
underneath your collarbone.

This isn’t a poem—
it’s prelude.
A preface to pleasure.
A page that undoes you
measure by measure.

And when I’m done,
don’t beg for more.
Just reread the breath
between my metaphors.

Read me slowly.
Feel the flicker.
I don’t cast shadows—
I make them thicker.
And when you beg
for one last line,
remember, love—
every spell I cast is completely mine.

—Cass 🖋️🪄🔥

© 2025 Cassian Delmare. All rights reserved.

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✨ Author’s Note

Some people use pens.
I use incantations.
Every word is a doorway,
and this one?
You just walked through.

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💌 Cast It Forward

If this poem flickered something in you—restack it, comment, or send it to someone who speaks in spells. Or…

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