Prompt:

The lantern dies where the slow waters turn,Beneath a moon that refuses to burn.She steps from the shadow with eyes burning green,The strangest roulette that the wild bank has seen.With a shift of her skirt and a tilt of her head,She dances a waltz for the living and dead.They call her the gypsy, the ghost of the draw,Who answers to no human custom or law.She whispers to shadows that crawl up the bark,And laughs with the monsters that live in the dark.The RueGarou runs when she whistles his name,And the fireflies mimic her emerald flame.The mist on the bayou turns thick as a shroud,As a phantom ship sails through a low-hanging cloud.The ghost of Jean Lafeet steps onto the mud,With a cutlass of silver and boots stained in blood.He bows to the gypsy, she takes his cold hand,And they dance a dark jig on the sinking wet land.He whispers of gold that was buried and lost,While she counts the heartbeats his old secrets cost.The old people tell of the things in the swamp,But she is the one who commands their long stomp.The Cauchemar steps back when she passes him by,A shiver of green underneath the black sky.She dances the night till the currents run cold,A living refrain for the tales never told.Her footsteps leave ripples that never will fade,A phantom of velvet and silver and jade.So close up your windows and bolt up your door,When the green-eyed girl dances along the mud floor.She’ll spin you to pieces and sing you to sleep,In the dark of the waters where old secrets keep.