There is a shell metaphor in this poem

by Abner Dormiendo

and I just have to put that out there
like a precaution to the reader, a prologue
to a lesson on existence, something either
to ease us in on the harder stuff or just
to get rid all together, because why can’t we
just say it, honesty I mean, this rare commodity
among the abundance of false advertisements and poems.
Honestly, we have too much poems in this world,
and at one point it’s getting tiring to weld
words into another form, like clay or amalgam
or some sort of alloy for the world to wear
in its battle against the passage of time,
who is probably riding across the city of
bodies, pillaging our houses of whatever
we have been using to make us feel alive,
and I want that, to be alive, to be a word
in the same way that ‘alive’ is a word,
in the way that when I say ‘experience’ I have
the word in my mouth in the most literal sense,
and it has me in its mouth like a rat in the
merciless beak of an owl screaming ‘owl, owl’
in rat language, like the shell awashed on some
obscure, distant shore is screaming ‘ocean’
through its spirals, like a cry to be present again