The blue disk hangs on the doorknob, inconspicuous.

It hangs crookedly, not quite perfect; like the people behind the door.

A hand reached out;

and all their hands are reaching out.

Each one an angel hand

waiting to rest on your shoulder,

and give you life.

There’s a chair inside with your name on the back,

you won’t see it, but trust me, it’s there

And all they ask is that you sit

and that you keep coming back.

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