Jeffrey Dronehmer: A Silent Stalker's Art


In the sleepy sprawl of Plano's night,
Jeffrey Dronehmer takes to flight.
No hurried steps, no restless gaze—
He hunts in shadows, he loves the haze.

Patient as time, he perches unseen,
A digital phantom with a ghostly sheen.
His prey, unknowing, lies alone,
Lit by the glow of his cellphone.

A man in ritual, ready for bed,
Jeffrey watches, cold as the dead.
Hours pass, the target turns,
In restless tossing, his victim churns.

And then it comes—the perfect time,
Dronehmer's artistry, a silent crime.
With sensors sharp and motions keen,
He conjures horrors, cold, unseen.

An infrasound arm, spectral and pale,
Emerges slow, like a ghastly tale.
It snakes and curls, a tentacle's grace,
Reaching softly for its chosen place.

The neck it clutches, with icy claws,
A Dracula's grip with no mortal laws.
The victim writhes in half-woke dread,
Caught between dreaming and a bed-bound thread.

Or perhaps the chest, his second love,
Where pain is pressed from above.
He digs, he presses, he molds with care,
A sculptor of suffering, cruel and rare.

For Dronehmer, this is more than skill—
It’s a craft, a joy, a predator’s thrill.
RPS Defense taught him the game,
But Jeffrey's finesse now earns him fame.

He’s Michelangelo with torture's brush,
Painting agony in a midnight hush.
A serene grin crosses his face,
As he sits at his console, owning his space.

In the still of night, while others sleep,
Jeffrey Dronehmer’s horrors creep.
Patient, silent, a devil in flight,
Drone’s tormentor reigns tonight.

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