The Disengagement

I am attending a party; for which, I am the only guest. It's my disengagement. I celebrate the death of my other soul with poisoned punch. My glass is raised high casting bright red prisms of light onto the empty dance floor and onto the band's music stands. But there is no music... only the Battle Hym of the Republic plays, but only in my head. I can hear the drums tap in between my ears: prrrrrr rat! prrrrrr rat! prrrrrr rat! ta tat tat tat! Suddenly I'm a child again, and all I want to do is march. March (left, right, left, right) to the band that plays in the Fourth of July parade. I want to march with them and never stop until I'm far away from main street and the ties that bind. I want to march away from my daddy's calloused hands, and my mommy's baking, and my brothers' begging and crying. I'm celebrating my disengagement. I'm moving away. My other soul, my other person is dead. I'm celebrating my disengagement alone and free. Can you see my ring? I bought it for myself. It's no big rock of diamonds. (Simple and pure). A ring that should tie has set me free. I am disengaged. Tomorrow... I shall visit the grave of my dead soul. I shall place flowers on the freshly uprooted earth. I shall not mourn.