When Will The Stars Be Right?

WHEN WILL THE STARS BE RIGHT?

As far back as I can remember, the twinkling heavens have fascinated me.  Though all I had growing up was a cheap telescope that my father bought, those nights peering through it left deep impressions on my young soul that I would never shake. The waning image of the moon, its dark craters far outside the clouds. Halley's comet, gliding gently through the heavens.
         I think the thing that appealed to me the most was the cyclic nature of it all – the turning and turning, like endless wheels within wheels, travelling from some unknown location.  It's destination remained unknown, yet it seemed to not just be heading to nowhere.  Cycles within cycles, interlocking gears, slowly, subtly propelling onward that vague force that men call “time”.
         One cycle that had fascinated me of late enraptured me into an awareness of celestial cogs that actually open and close unseen portals, gateways into regions outside our material reality and consciousness;  realms outside the grip of mere time and space.
         I watched as she glimmered at me, the glow of that blue-white sentinel over the western horizon.  Night after night, evening by evening, over months since her first appearance, rising and rising, ascending higher and higher.  Though in spite of her great efforts and strife, as the sphere of the firmament plunged into the infernal regions, so too she descended into the same fatal demise.  Ancient tales of ascent and descent played out in silent pageantry in the night against the backdrop of the gathered constellations. Then evening by evening, her strife over, slowly she appeared in the fading dusk lower and lower, till finally – I knew – I would not see her again. 
         That fatal evening approached, as it always did – every five hundred, four and eighty nights. The wheel had turned, crushing that glistening seed.  But this time, that night was the harbinger of a momentous time in history.
         Octad by octad, that fatefully imperfect pentagram inscribed across the heavens, till finally, the cycle of sol and her would meet.  By virtue of the crossing of planes, something usually unseen – an invisible transgression hidden from our sight, for the first time in nearly two and a half centuries was about to be revealed.
         Days passed.
         Though thirteen fateful days would pass before once again the world would see her in the shimmering eddies of the fast approaching dawn, this time, however, in the very midst of it – day seven – to my longing gaze, I would see her dark figure, traversing the burning fire of day.
         When such a day would come (not every generation is so privileged), a gateway would be opened, though insensible to most.  For six long hours, I would watch at the opening, waiting expectantly at the gates.  If I would be prepared for my Queen, would her King come?
         
         The hours passed.
         
         Nothing.
         
         When will the stars be right?