Challenge
You're a Pompeiian poet. Volcanic ash is raining down. You write one last poem. What is it?
lava
The skies.
They are telling me not to sleep.
They are telling me to die.
The ash.
It is raining down like black diamonds
Leaving behind nothing but an orange flash.
Lava.
Running down the streets,
Chasing my old friends,
People I don't know,
And soon it will come for me.
And take me to my death.
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