Rainbowman,
you were never just seven colors.
You were a wrestler’s breath,
caught between the ropes and the ruin,
a body built for impact
before anyone taught you
how a vow can hit harder than a fist.
In India, the sky learned your name.
A hermit drew circles in the dust,
calling each grain a possibility—
moon, sun, water, fire,
forest, earth, lightning—
and told you to wear them
like new vertebrae.
He said:
when the world fractures,
you will answer in spectra,
not in bullets.
So now you move
through the static of a 4:3 frame,
a soft blur on aging tape,
VHS snow trying to bury your outline
while you keep stepping forward,
each stride a different element,
each element a different way of saying
I refuse your extinction.
Dash moon:
you shrink until only conscience remains,
small enough to slip through
the keyhole of a locked heart.
Dash fire:
you burn without ash,
turning slogans into smoke,
letting the children see
where the sky starts again.
Dash water:
you remember every name
the tide tried to steal.
Dash forest, earth, light—
you stand there, layered in myth,
a moving mandala of punches and prayers,
karaoke theme song still echoing
in a language some of us
only half understand
yet feel completely.
The Die Die Gang arrives
like every algorithm we’ve ever feared:
faceless, repeating,
optimized for erasure.
You answer with lagging special effects
and absolute sincerity,
a budget of almost nothing
and a heart that keeps overperforming
the script.
In another decade
they redraw you as robots—
seven machines that fuse into one
because the market believes
children love scale
more than solitude.
But somewhere,
under layers of merch and metal,
the original pact still glows:
a human being promising
to become plural
whenever “one” is not enough.
Rainbowman,
patron saint of low-resolution courage,
you teach us a new metric:
not sonnet, not haiku,
but how many forms
can a single life hold
before it breaks.
Tonight the world scrolls doom
in thirty-second loops.
Somewhere in that endless feed
we need you to slip between frames,
quietly switching dashes:
shrinking to enter the smallest fear,
cracking the concrete with a root,
flooding a city with one impossible act
of gentleness,
striking like brightness, not like war.
If we call your name now,
will you still come running
through the grain of our days,
mask bright, cape cheap,
every limitation visible—
and still,
against all believable odds,
completely on our side?
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