There Was No Prelude

Clubfoot. 
A poet's dilemma. 
You cannot think straight, 
cannot walk straight― 
unaided. 

In grimaced face, one 
eye patched, there stood a deliverer 
with raised hands― 
bringing down the empire of 
a baby king. 

You walk out of the painting 
mutely. The king was 
ready to be laid down for the 
poisoning effect. 

Was there anybody to 
explain that why the dynasty 
falls one day and the 
poet wins the broken fort?