Paintings of War

The glorious paintings of war,
Strung up in the castles of kings,
Show victory over the French,
Yet they don't know what war really means.

Not a speck of blood on the canvas,
Not a mutilated body in sight,
Not a single open wound on the dead,
No evidence of a fight.

The painters paid to paint,
Something to hang on the wall,
Not remotely life-like,
Nothing like war at all.

For if a painter painted the real,
If he splashed on all of his red,
The kings would lie awake at night,
Haunted by the image in their heads.

For war isn't glorious charges,
Sun glistening off bayonets,
Instead it's horrific carnage,
Full of pain and regrets.

What isn't understood,
By great Kings or their Queens,
Is when they send their men to war,
Nothing is as it seems.