The loneliness of a man who's lost all to fire

What do we know of the loneliness of a man who's lost?

I always thought fire cleanses,
but here he was, lighting a pyre,
his half-naked body, auburn as the setting sun, 
casked in a rain of sweat, 
converting brittle wood into a carriage - 

seeing cradling arms turn to ash, 
caressing hands turn to nothing, 
a smile crumble into memory, 
a soul on the way to seek another address. 

There's a whole festival, a bouquet, one loses, when a loved one dies, he'd said. 
And as I stood close to him, to hold his hand, 
maybe him, 
he broke down into a million pieces,
brittle as the wood on fire,
and I wondered again - 

what, indeed, do we know of the loneliness of a man who's lost?