I sit on a throne of unfinished things,
wearing a crown of missed chances,
a robe of echoes and brittle stances,
stitched with the pull of quiet strings.
My mini palace is kept on my palm,
built from silent, paused goodbyes.
I spread my kingdom with quiet gaze,
ruled it with intent none could revise.
I am self-slaved by chosen remand,
My soldier thumb obeys each command
My courtier eyes chart where I land
Time kneels before my wordless stand.
I claimed the void they wouldn't dare
and named myself the nillionaire.
A sovereign forged in silence, “Nillionaire” reclaims stillness, unfinished things, and missed chances as the architecture of power. Through mythic imagery and precise restraint, it builds a throne out of pause and a crown from what others call loss. For those who've been mistaken for nothing—this is your anthem.
