Why it feels off

On is a state that bounces a ball
Without a hand to toss it
Gone is the fate of everything we call
Won't let no moss here sit

Paces are jogged under the bridge
A mile under canyon
For hack-sales market ridge
You file 'sunder to ban yen

And your preexisting judgements 
Nail your fate to an asterisk
Later will begrudgements 
Sail a plate through your obelisk

Monuments all
Fading to stark
Emolument ball
Bouncing on snark