The opiate king

I am the dream of the ancient opiate king,
as he sweats in his room full of steam,
rolling smoke by the ream,
and by chance in his trance,
he has happened on me,
without understanding,
why my fingers keep tapping the
light that emits from the thing that I know
as a screen,
to him a magical thing,
such sorcery a conjure of fiends
and demons that he fears will rush
in around his round pillow plush,
in contrast to the square pillows of my time,
as he lays out with his concubines,
and he wonders where are mine,
and ponders if he is my dream,
and it seems that it seems,
we both are entangled in being,
that if I don’t exist without him,
nor could he still exist without me
so he stays insecure
and I remain in my kingdom
full of need
as I am
and I am the opiate king...