powdered charcoal--half a poem

coldness seeps into him almost burning his skin after that intense heat
he turns towards it welcoming it
he puts out his hand, snatching it back again
why can't he feel anything in his fingers
he tries to open his eyes, finds only holes there
why is he smelling burnt wood powderded to charcoal
concentrating hard enough, he faces the inevitable truth

death can only have only colour, which is amalgamation of all others
his cremation could only come after he had died from drowning