We are visionaries, you and I,
our imagination like our power
limitless; we make people bleed
so easily, don't we?

But as you made brooms dance,
dwarfs believe they had names,
feasted on the venison
of our tears, I made galaxies
tremble in my iron grip, anything
to see my dear mother one
last time.

I could have been a tragedy
you animated.

Today, I watched swarms of
your lawyers descend onto Latvia,
appraising the intellectual rights
of my people, this land, my castle,
this visage; Doom shall have
none of this.

You hold over five-thousand heroes
and villains in your skeletal fist
ready to make us dance like your idea
of Pinocchio, hunger for errant strands
of spaghetti, team us up with
Winnie the Pooh.  I hear EPCOT
will add a facsimile of Wakanda;
Doom shall have none of this.

Steve Rodgers will forget the way he collected
the teeth of Nazis like baseball cards, Mockingbird
would never lose her baby, Luke Cage only punches
white collar criminals, Wolverine shreds his enemies
with adamantium hugs; Doom shall have none
of this.

Doom knows winners write history; what have
you won that allows you the red pen to revise it?
How much of your soul did you sell to build
ladders out of our bones?

I know you cannot answer, yet. 
When my Doombots reach you, they will
not harm you; they will make you watch
the way your vision developed glaucoma,
how idle hands buy ideas instead of
building them, how Mickey's laugh
gouges.  You will watch all you built
and love decay; I will take some solace
in that before I forget who I am.