Prisoner to King Louis XIV he clings to the curtains of his bed,
Torn down from the walls of his cell when the pain fills his head,
And anger consumes him for his situation as it would any man,
The iron mask acts as a pressure keg and he's ready to blow the can.
Sweat pours from his forehead as the thing is incredibly hot,
His hearing is dreadfully limited and he's been all but forgot,
His skin feels prickly from the heat of its confines, ever inflamed,
Eyes filled with tears that go nowhere his vision always framed.
What good are the luxuries they afford him if he can't go out?
Why is the convict treated so well and his identity left to doubt?
The Bastille is a strange place to house a valet of any import,
What is his crime to suit thirty years of imprisonment when caught?
Eustace Dauger is but a man not an aristocrat or a twin,
He's under threat of death if he speaks of who he is here within,
And the jailors know not to ask and to treat him with civility,
He has meals and a cat for company and books from nobility.
What threat can one man pose for so long to be in disguise?
Was he witness to some foul plot or one of the foreign spies?
At times they afford him respite to swap iron for velvet awhile,
Nobody is to be present when he does else prison law they defile.
From 1669 to 1703 he has many such dreadful locations new,
They wish to avert the curious eye and
avoid attention that grew,
Rumours emerge in hushed whispers fabulous tales of fancy,
Here is a mystery worthy of inspection as clear as a man can see.
Indulged in a manner that so rarely a captive was afforded,
Kept locked up for the rest of his life and all was recorded,
Why not kill him and be rid of both the risk and expense?
Who was paying for his incarceration and how's it make sense?
A comfy cell is still a prison no matter his freedom is confined,
To the beauty of blue skies and rolling green pastures he's blind,
To browse the busy markets or stroll in streets by the Seine,
These are all dreams he can escape to but wakes to reality then.
This is a nightmare from no release a torture he lives with now,
No wonder they indulge his silence by extracting his solemn vow,
Tell no-one, speak nothing and answer only if duty demands,
His life is forfeit if there's any trouble follow their commands.
And the window is his world to what could have once been,
The closed door is the path to choices that shall remain unseen,
So he has his tantrums and collapses in sheer exhausted frustration,
Who is this man and is he friend or foe to the Ruler of the nation?