Morning arrives, but it brings no relief. The speaker wakes to a violent sunrise, where the horizon "cuts the throat of the Sun", and finds that the line between memory and fantasy has blurred. Days repeat with the same faces and places, each one carrying the speaker further from the start, while the hour-glass empties. The poem seems to describe a slow realisation of loss, with the withered wildflowers and fading blue standing in for something once alive and hopeful.
The speaker feels trapped, shut behind darkening glass with no visible exit, and asks desperate questions: how did this happen, and when did it start? The mood is heavy, tired and full of regret. Yet the ending turns. The speaker admits the future may already be fixed, or it may not be, and chooses to hold onto the second possibility. "So wait," the poem says, because "not every chain is unbreakable." It closes on a small, stubborn glimmer of hope.