Heavy and Archer at the end of everything

Heavy and Archer at the end of everything:
They stand at the seashore, beneath the blue sky,
Overlooking the nothing that's beneath them,
Where cities full of treasures laid
And where dragons of old were slain
Fighting woefully against the sands of time.

Heavy says to Archer:
Do you, bowsman, still hear the roar?
The roar of passion of those in the past
That still echoes every once in a while,
As their memories congregate a smile
At the brief refraction of our before?

Archer replies:
No, I'm not sure what you're on about.
These shadow valleys have been empty
Longer than I care to imagine,
What was here was washed by famine,
What remained was victim to doubt.

Heavy refutes:
The cheers and whispers still fill the air
From those who are in the afterlife,
They left them here but kept them alive
So that someday at quarter past five
They can return and fulfill our prayer.

Archer raises an eyebrow:
They'll be disappointed, I'll be frank,
Look at this, there's nothing here!
Do you expect them to come home
To where the gods didn't hear their moans?
To a place that's been left blank?

Heavy shakes his head:
Gods above and demons below,
Both heard and both tried their best.
But the slow and ominous passing of time
Is more than just mere asinine,
It's an unstoppable force to which even gods bestow.

Archer is confused:
So to what point do you wait around,
If all you say is what's true,
For your hope of a second light,
That returns the roars of the fight
To this long-forgotten battleground?

Heavy suggests:
Well, it's not dead yet, is it?
It's just in a state of perpetual limbo.
It must eventually meet its fate,
And I don't believe it's too late
To change its course to superavit.

Archer sighs:
I agree it'd be quite nice, but to be fair,
I'm just an Archer and you're just a Heavy.
To pull the warriors back into play,
Those warriors must pull in the same way,
But I highly doubt they'd care.

Heavy and Archer at the beginning of everything:
The water in the creeks flows into Atlantis,
And from there it's taken out in aquifers
To bring sustenance to the fields of rye,
And as long as water is a cycle, they'll try
To nourish the field back to how it was long before this.

Imagine writing poetry over a block game that's kinda sheeeeesh