the 95% of me is not there

can i still hear the voices, those
beautiful voices, calling me upwards;
how i love their sound, like resounding bells of
hope and happy, all for me

but if i listen now sometimes it is with one ear
still thinking about what is to be, down here--
--with my newly finished papers, all stacked so neatly, and
my beautiful hair, perfectly combed now,
instead of the other--

and how, hearing her i feel peace
but the thing about peace is, that,
she has no urgency, and,
there are so very many urgent things to the down here,
that i find myself very often living in
that 95%
to which i do not belong