He coughed and coughed, and huffed and puffed.
Through the shroud of mist, or smog I should say.
No sunshine, no stepping out in the hay.
The city under a spell, of darkness and despair.
It better not be some thing which we cannot repair.
The future seems dark and desolate from here, more on the dystopian side.
Miles tall buildings, no air to breathe, nothing green, no one to chide.
Good health would just be a myth, a perfect unattainable state.
Fresh air would just be a memory, to tantalize, but not something tangible to sate.