Clot.

Tiny passageway
a gateway for many
warm and comforting
leading to the chamber just beyond.

A place of feeling and need,
abode to love and fear.
The will for life harbors here,
sitting on fragile balance.

One tiny intruder,
so lithe and real.
Stands still at the door,
smiling coyly at the precious balance.

A tiny thought,
grows larger with strength.
Feeding on fear and mystery,
laughing at the chaos it breeds.

The chamber stops,
gasping and writhing.
Choking on confusion and suspicion,
destroying all it holds dear.

The clot stands guard,
so small and lethal.
Grinning at the place,
that was weak from the beginning.