Can a butterfly sing as sweetly as it flies in the tax man’s eyes?

Today I basked in the glow of a warm sun under ocean blue skies. I flap and flap, hoping for lift, feeling the mist of smog disappear. Blood red wings carry me to distant field of green, where I join my army of fellow butterflies, morphed from the winter rain.

We plot, we plan, we flap…

Then the paper hawk circles, menacing my half-formed joy. Something drops. Something flutters to my green spot of earth, dragging me back to the world of real. 1040.

I can write to escape. I can sing to fly. But, despite my protests, I can’t do my own damn taxes. I grab the note and find the bookkeeper of the butterflies. 1040.

And sailing with my army of butterflies, we float in the window, leaden with notes. Stand in line, stand again, stand back. Our new wings dissolve back into the mist of smog. 1040.

Most days I dream of peace and unity. Most weeks I find myself restless for love. Most minutes, I just want to fly and sing. 1040 grounds my flight. Now I just want to escape the alphabet soup of letters and notes, pay my fare.

These days, I just dream of a better system for paying taxes. I don’t mind paying, mind you. I just want to know how much to drop, from my perch above the mist of smog. It should be as easy as writing, singing or even emerging from a winter cocoon to take wing.

As for me, I’ll just be happy when the tax man returns my wings.
How would you change the way we do it? Flat? Fair? Progressive? All Sales? What would give you your wings back?