Determine if my following original composition is a poem, or merely poetastry (inferior poetry).

The haunting plaintive wail
of the aged escalator.
Mourning mechanical obsolescence.
Pining, whining, grating lifting burden
After burden, churning, ever turning.
Smoothly first, incessant revolution.
In time here and there a maintenance repair.
A grease, a wheel, turning still.
Weak was strong in times long gone.
Another foot to barely bear
The aging, slaving mechanical stair.
One last groan as if known
To parts and pieces
Life’s short lease is destined
And degreases to be
Torn asunder, stole from under.
The escalator wails I fear,
For all of us,
Our end is near.