Time feels like a trap in this poem. Each day we look forward to turns into the past almost as soon as it arrives, and we are left waiting again, unsure what for. The speaker asks how long the pattern will last and when the cycle will end, and the questions go unanswered, which makes the repetition feel even heavier.
Then the poem darkens. Without a past, the future becomes a desert that keeps growing and closing in, as slowly and quietly as midnight mist. Without a future, the present turns into a test you are bound to fail. The only way out is a strange one: stop fighting the meaninglessness and dance with the absurdity instead. The mood moves from restless, anxious questioning to something calmer and almost defiant. The scattered spacing on the page echoes the drifting, uneasy feeling, and the final lines suggest that accepting life's lack of answers might be a kind of freedom.