Freezer or Oven: Which is more Kosher?

I live in fantasies, mingled in reality, flavored in the imperceptible. I ponder a poet, fraught with seeing eyes, aloof at first glance; to mistaken pain—this thing of woes, as often used as segues; but it couldn’t be love, for one evolved, while pulling pagan clouds. The nights are sunny, where our angst is beige, sitting in an ageless office. I’m at woes to confess, this inner nature, glazing over a beautiful contour; this wakeful soul, hiding but seen, those feelings we must exhaust. Our years are polished, this easy lot, a bit frantic with visions; as touching passions, this grimace of souls, pleading that minutes show mercy. I never could—this thing of fools, a bit emphatic with lust; that grave invention, while spirits tug—at something vile within; to pull a comma, this sleeping monster, at odds with this written word. It couldn’t be real—and so claustrophobic, this pair of maniacs; and it had to be real—these sober souls, at war with this peaceful nature; for hell is burning, this inner yearning—for total chaos: this wild wolf; this psychic chi; that thing racing to say goodbye; where this is life, that something for nothing, afraid to ask that favor. I live in fantasies, mingled with foolishness—a poet and his den; that fatal excuse, as to ruin innocence, where passion erupts prematurely; so it couldn’t be real, this song of songs, gazing at this beautiful shrine; that silent ache, that must refrain, as years morph into mania; this silent season, as rude as treason, pushing through boundaries; as seizing the moment, this morning regret—one filled with a pounding skull; so more to kosher, or even copasetic, that trail of trains headed east; while love is deaf, as to never move, while beauty loathes his soul. It couldn’t be real, as accused as callous, where action would burn a bridge; so why for souls—this thing of woes, as assumed as normal?