Poem -

Kontula Station

The glass doors open on their own,
Above them, on a red stripe,Ā 
is the station name
In white letters,
As you walk through the opening,
There are metallic bins to the right
Along with a photo booth
Noises of voices and machines fill your earsĀ 
Like background musicĀ 
Before you make your way past the ticket machinesĀ 
to the steel escalatorsĀ 
Ā Gliding down to the station floorĀ 
Where the walls are silver,Ā 
Between the glass entry and exit doorsĀ 
There is an elevatorĀ 
As you walk through the entrance,Ā 
There is a final set of glass doorsĀ 
Before you arrive at the platformĀ 
There you are greeted by vending machinesĀ 
And times for each of the trainsĀ 
The smell of oil and coffee hits your nose
With people sitting or conversingĀ 
Pinkish-grey concrete that is pristineĀ 
With drains
Between wooden benchesĀ 
Lines the floor of the stationĀ 
Between two different sets of train lines
With brown dirt across them,Ā 
At the top of the walls are pieces of 80s graffiti,Ā 
The middle of the walls are covered in the same red and white stripes.Ā 
As can be seen outside,
But with greenish maps sitting underneathĀ 
The further you enter,
The more that you can see,
Another set of escalatorsĀ 
Beyond that are grey pillars with touches of age and black graffitiĀ 
In the middle sits a series of elevators
Until you reach a large map to the left with a set of circular bins
Mounted on a pillar at the endĀ 
There are exit signs,
With a set of concrete stairs at the bottom,
A green growth spilling out of its sidesĀ 
At this point, you only hear the wheels of the trains passing by
Each train is orange and black,
With porcelain bicycle symbols on them
It's paint reflecting the grimy yellow lights above our heads
As the digital destinations repeat on the back,
Of each black message board
As if they are saying:
Welcome to Kontula.

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Comments

author
Marion

Thankyou for the journey x

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