This is Poetry?

A fourteen-liner with no punch line:
you read, I write, I read, you hear.
I'm a word-miner, and this is mine,
my words, your time, my word! You're here
- even after thirty-two words of inconsequence,
your sneering dismissal is no recompense.
There is wisdom in your silence, reader:
there is fury and sound in this scribbled noise,
you gloat and mock these feeblest of ploys.
Yet you read, I write, I read, you hear:
a metaphor-est, the scent of burning cedar
and manuscripts thrown on cooling embers,
pulped trees, paper turned to ash remembers
why we tried for meaning, because we need her.