Tax Day Cometh

 The calendar descends to April’s date,
The crimson circle marks the dreaded line,
I sit before the papers, cursed by fate,
To offer up the fruits of sweat and wine.

The forms are spread like webs across the desk,
With endless boxes begging to be filled,
A ritual both grim and statuesque,
Where all the year’s hard labor is distilled.

I calculate the cost of living free,
And weigh the burdens that the state demands,
The portion of my life I yield to thee,
And place within the government's cold hands.

The balance struck, the final toll is paid,
In silence now, the ledger softly laid.