But, something that's not worth anything, nothing transcendental,
"that's when you notice how crows murder
the bright of day, the white of snow."
and here is death, purple death, the death of romanticism; it could be Keats talking about the Nightingale and the sensuousness of death. It is visible in the syntax and style of that line, but if someone has their faith in that as a reader
they are perhaps misguided.
And then afterwards, not that death is beautiful, but the mundanity of death, its timely fashion, and orderlessness...
"that's when you notice how crows murder"
What do we have to make meaning of? Such a certain failing except if we put it in a 24 hour clock? Itself a sad attempt. (Not in your poem I'm talking about human agency)
"the earliest parts of morning are for random thoughts"
Such thoughts convey possibility, and this connects with me as does the rest of the poem, But these; random thoughts which are the things that keep us from the last part of the poem, though we know it is surely ahead of us
"even they wait to shed another twenty-four."
Its a sad trawl to some undreamed vision of routine.
But in the poem I would say just reading through it, though its bleak, there's strife aswell, without retaliating against what means something nihilistic:
In the fringe, in the morning there is something to think about; side alleys and other ways someone might not be free, but would find meaning.