Unanswerable questions

Lonely wanderer, face sallowesque underneath the bareness of your hood.
From mind to hands to fingers to feet, you are cold,
an icy rottenness unable to recover, even under the influence 
of a scorching flame, pleading in its warmth.
It’s useless, useless, you whisper, eyes half-closed already –
threadbare eyelashes fluttering away slowly, caught within follicles of air.
How many wishes have you wasted? 
How many fairy hours have you passed by? 
Lonely wanderer, I want to ask, for what reason did you never throw off 
your filthy cloak and wrap yourself in red cotton instead;
for what reason did you wait
and spiral into the deep mold
of surrender?