Transpoetic

With every new coin I toss,
or every bridge I dare cross,
I do love to step over the line,
upending every poetic design.

As I again try to make my way,
in the quest to somehow unsay
these stanzas within the night,
left here forever burning bright.

A testament to a dead religion,
useless as a Central Park pigeon,
sitting atop a head of marble,
only able to mutter, then garble.

For such are these prosaic times,
contemptuous of truth and rhymes,
seeking only to merely entertain—
somehow mollify modernity's pain.

While I seek to vault this threshold,
somehow, some way, then behold
the meaning with inside each poem—
a verity to both tease and then comb.