Wordsforghosts begins with the slipperiness of language: we mishear words, then admit there are no correct ones, only some that do the job a little better. That uncertainty spreads outward. Dreams pass themselves off as prophecies, prophets are despised, and days either drift by like a quiet parade or tear off screaming into the night.
The speaker's central question is a sad one: are our most fiercely defended fantasies made only to be destroyed? Maybe that is why we keep wanting them. The poem then turns to the odd impulse to jump when crossing a bridge, noting that it doesn't line up neatly with any mood. Despondency and excitement, love and indifference all sit in the same list, with "ideation" quietly darkening it.
The ending moves to colour, which depends on more than light: on our eyes, our sight, and what we choose to see, or look away from. The mood is reflective, uneasy, and tender, as though the speaker is looking back and seeing how much was always unclear.