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?