The Existential Futility of the Zodiac

My old and my young, my low and my high
Have all come beneath the same stars, in the same sky.
Who change not, for all my frustrations,
Who aren't moved by my joy or my strife.
They hold, more than I do, to their patterns,
Though I ever am living the same life.
They shun both stagnation and hurry,
Forever holding the same pace–
A reminder that I'm always the same guy,
In a slightly different place,
While the contrast between the consistent old stars,
and the younger, and fickler moon
Reminds me that even when scenes change,
Life will feel all the same again soon.